How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways
by Frakme
Summary: Rated M for sexual situations. Title taken from Elizabeth Barratt Browning's Sonnet 43. It takes them a while, but they'll get there. A post season 3 Johnlock. Smut, angst, humour, hurt/comfort and Those Two Idiots.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This fic has already been published on AO3 but is not yet complete. So far I have 11 chapters that have been beta'd and I will put them up here over the next few days. I am also halfway through chapter 12. I should be able to publish brand new chapters every 2-3 days depending on how busy me and my beta are!**

* * *

><p>1.<p>

It's so tentative that at first it's barely there, barely noticeable. The little closure of the space between them, not really what you would find in flatmates and best friends. These days, if they sit on the sofa, they sit as if leaving room for another person to join them, usually next to Sherlock as John likes to lean on the arm.

They can sit there for hours, Sherlock on his laptop, John with his nose in a book, thighs touching, sometimes hands brushing. It's all fine, though, inconsequential and simmering in the background.

Sometimes their friends and acquaintances look at them, feeling as if the whole world is holding its breath. Well, here's hoping the world has plenty of lung capacity.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

The next step is after a case. Three days of chasing around half of London, looking for clues, tracing trails and following up leads but finally they had what they needed so Lestrade had enough evidence to make an arrest and, most importantly, build a robust case.

When John sits back on the sofa, toeing off his shoes, his head falls back and he closes his eyes. Sherlock flops next to him and falls sideways, head falling into John's lap. He thinks momentarily of protesting, but right now he's too tired to care. Eventually they both sleep and despite the uncomfortable positions, it's the best sleep they have had in ages.

It's not acknowledged though as the next night, they head off to their separate beds and separate nightmares.

* * *

><p>3.<p>

The client's daughter is a pretty blonde with a cute button nose and sweet smile. She's looking at John in admiration as Sherlock and the client discuss an attempt to blackmail her over an incident that had happened when she was at university, over thirty years before.

And naturally he is flattered and surprised, normally such pretty young women are mesmerised by Sherlock's sharp cheekbones, sensual mouth, iridescent green eyes and dark tumbling locks than John's more conventional good looks. But perhaps she is turned off by the disdainful way he is speaking to her mother.

He thinks if he asks her for a date, she wouldn't refuse and he is almost tempted except that Sherlock breaks off his questions to the client to gaze narrowly between John and the younger woman and all thoughts of a date and maybe more disappear from his head.

* * *

><p>4.<p>

He does go on dates occasionally. A woman he meets down the pub, a friend of one his army mates, a woman he helps to locate the phone she dropped when shopping in Boots. Yet all of them are in some way, lacking. The dates are like the bland offerings on daytime telly, entertainment while it lasts but soon forgotten.

Besides he knows that it he were to go any further with them, a tall, curly haired shadow would soon make his presence known, act as a repelling force that no potential love interest could possibly penetrate. Odd how he never resents it now, secretly craves it, wants the excitement, the bursts of colour and sound that Sherlock can bring into his life.

Being the recipient of Sherlock's focus is like being on a rollercoaster, just as it reaches the top of the lift hill, knowing that the adrenaline rush that is coming is something akin to ecstasy.

* * *

><p>5.<p>

The dates tail off in the end. It seems that Sherlock provides nearly everything that John needs. The physical intimacy increases incrementally. It's now a regular occurrence to find Sherlock dozing with his head in John's lap, post-case, while the doctor awkwardly balances his laptop on the arm of the sofa and updates his blog. When he finishes and puts the laptop aside, he flicks on the TV and absent mindedly strokes Sherlock's soft curls.

Sometimes in a taxi home, a sleepy John might rest his head on a bony shoulder. Or when Sherlock helps him over a high wall, their hands touch for longer than is truly necessarily.

And if he fantasises about something more when he masturbates in the shower or in his bed, well, that's between him and his cock.

* * *

><p>6.<p>

John is looking at two dinner suits, one for him and one for Sherlock. Mycroft has twisted his brother's arm into taking a case, which involves attending a charity ball. One of the trustees of the charity, which funds important research into HIV, is suspected of financial irregularities and an extra-marital affair. So they pose as a couple, with tickets acquired by Mycroft.

Neither of them find it at all objectionable when Sherlock sweeps John into his arms on the ballroom floor, dancing gracefully, as John remembers when the detective first taught him to waltz, just before his ill-fated wedding. Unconsciously he clutches the detective tighter as he recalls his ex wife, who'd tried to kill his best friend before she eventually absconded with her child (father unknown).

Naturally, Sherlock solves the case, begrudgingly as it was far too easy, but whispers to John in the taxi home that he'd like to dance with him again.

* * *

><p>7.<p>

They're both a little pissed, at least a fifth of a bottle of Auchentoshen Springwood, gift from a grateful client, is gone, the whisky smoky on their tongues. And John recalls the charity ball so Sherlock, determined to educate his doctor in other dances than the waltz, teaches him the foxtrot, the quickstep and, when they help themselves to more whisky, the tango.

The intimacy of the last dance has them giggling like school boys, as Sherlock dips and spins the smaller man like a marionette. Eventually they both collapse, giddy and exhausted onto the sofa, which is far more used these days than their two armchairs. They stay there a while until John reluctantly gets up and announces he is going to bed. Sherlock nods and picks up his laptop, opening it up.

"Don't stay up all night," says John, as he absently squeezes Sherlock's shoulder, his hand lightly brushing a pale neck. He fails to notice a shiver from Sherlock as he does so.

* * *

><p>8.<p>

"You're burning up!" says John, feeling Sherlock's flushed forehead. He finds his medical bag and takes the detective's temperature; 39.6 degrees Celsius. "Get back to bed!"

"No," Sherlock replies, pouting. "I'm fine and I have Lestrade waiting for me-" the rest of his words are lost in a fit of coughing.

John removes the laptop from the taller man's protesting hands, then grabs the detective's mobile. He rings the DI.

"Yeah, Greg, it's John… no he's not… sorry mate, you're on your own for this one, he's sick, think he might have flu… yeah, appreciate it. See you later."

Sherlock looks at him furiously, his hand out for his 'phone, but John turns it off and it puts it in the kitchen, before manhandling the detective into his bedroom. Sherlock is as weak as a kitten, so can't put up much of a struggle as the smaller man puts him to bed. John stays with him until he falls into a feverish sleep.

* * *

><p>9.<p>

It's nearly a week before the fever finally breaks. John is exhausted; looking after Sherlock has proven to be very hard work and his pride would not let him accept help from Mycroft. The doctor had long ago accepted responsibility for the health and wellbeing of his flatmate and so it's John that keeps the detective hydrated, wipes his sweaty brow, gives him paracetamol and ibuprofen for the fever and aches that rack his lanky frame. Who patiently feeds the detective tiny sips of Mrs Hudson's home made soups, cleans up his vomit and helps him in the bathroom.

So it's not surprising that the first lucid moment Sherlock has, he rolls over to find the doctor sleeping like the dead on the bed next to him. With light, trembling fingers, he is still so weak, he traces the line of John's jaw before stroking his stubbly cheek. John wakes up then to find a cool hand pressed against his face.

"Feeling better?" he asks sleepily and smiles when Sherlock nods. "Hope you don't mind me falling asleep here."

"Never, John and thank you."

The doctor places a hand on Sherlock's forehead, to satisfy himself that the fever has truly broken. The hand stays there, relieved that the skin is no longer clammy or burning hot.

"Go back to sleep, John," whispers Sherlock.

* * *

><p>10.<p>

Two stubborn men in the same flat can lead to fireworks, though it is fortunate that, for when they really get out of hand, Mrs Hudson can draw herself up to her full 5' 2" of height and put the fear of God into them. Because she will not tolerate them shouting at each other so loud that Mrs Turner's _neighbours_ are complaining about the racket.

Chastened, they mutter apologies to the diminutive landlady and then John reluctantly agrees that Sherlock has recovered enough to go to a crime scene that Greg texted him about half an hour ago but Sherlock would be in bed before midnight and will eat a decent portion of the chickpea dahl that John has made for him before they leave.

Mrs Hudson makes her way downstairs smiling to herself. She loves her two boys to death and she knows, she knows all too well, what they are to each other.


	2. Chapter 2

11.

It is inevitable really, that it would happen. Understandable, really, given Sherlock's methods. He's on the trail of a murderer, trying to determine the escape route from the four story block of flats in which the victim was found. He concludes he could've only gone up so Sherlock heads up to the roof, to see if he can determine which way the murderer fled.

John follows him, with a crawling feeling of dread, which is amplified when he emerges from the rooftop to see Sherlock approaching the edge of the roof. Within seconds, John has dragged Sherlock away from the edge, his face pale.

Sherlock opens his mouth to berate John when he sees the looks of anguish in the doctor's eyes. Suddenly he pulls him into his arms.

"Sorry, John, I'm so sorry," he whispers into the other man's hair.

* * *

><p>12.<p>

And what else is inevitable given the risks they take in pursuit of the truth, is that one or both of them will get hurt. This time it's John. When they confront a suspected embezzler, events taken an unexpected and dangerous turn, when their quarry panics, pulls out a knife and attempts to stab Sherlock.

John pushes the detective out of the way and as a result, the knife penetrates his shoulder, just below his scar. He falls to the floor and Sherlock in a fit of fury, disarms the attacker.

The medical staff try to make Sherlock leave after John comes out from surgery as he is not a family member. It is Mycroft who intervenes to ensure Sherlock can stay by his friend's side. John wakes to find Sherlock asleep in his chair, his head pillowed on John's bed, holding his hand.

* * *

><p>13.<p>

There's a case that requires them to go to Scotland. But it's the height of summer and trying to find accommodation in Fort William is proving difficult, virtually everywhere is fully booked. They eventually find a small B&B that has had a cancellation. It's a double room, but the Dutch couple who own it seem to completely unfazed about renting it two men, even if John is a little less sanguine.

They arrive by overnight sleeper train and hire a rental car to take them to the Highland Estate of Ardgour, there to investigate a rare art theft, a painting that has mysteriously turned up in a small London auction house. Admittedly the case was rather easy to solve, a cousin of the owner had stolen the painting to fund his gambling habits, but the two of them don't mind, as they appreciate the awesome scenery and Sherlock insists on driving all around Loch Linnhe and Loch Eil, rather than using the Corran Ferry to return to Fort William.

Dinner is at the Crannog Seafood Restaurant and both eat sea bass by candlelight overlooking the loch. They mull over eventual retirement here… though the midges do put them off that idea. It seems that they both take for granted that they will retire together.

* * *

><p>14.<p>

They return to the Lochan Cottage, having checked in earlier to dump their bags before going back into Fort William proper in search of food. The sky is clear and they both take a moment to gaze up at the stars. They picked a fortuitous day, the Perseid meteor shower puts on a spectacular show.

Eventually, they retire to their room and it seems that the fresh air has got to both of them, as they both intend to sleep. After a brief squabble over which side of the bed they are having, they both change into pyjamas and settle in for the night. They don't fall asleep immediately though as Sherlock is wriggling in a very distracting manner.

It seems a midge has bitten him on the back just where he can't reach. John sighs and scratches around the spot, smiling fondly at Sherlock's soft sighs of pleasure. He makes a mental note to get some anti-histamine cream in the morning but before long before they both fall asleep, John's hand still under Sherlock's t-shirt.

* * *

><p>15.<p>

Sherlock wakes up first, feeling rested but very warm. The sheets have been tossed off during the night and he's lying on his back with an army doctor wrapped around him snoring softly and, to his disgust, John is drooling on his t-shirt. Yet it is with unexpected tenderness he extracts himself from the sleeping man. With a sudden burst of affection he fetches a tissue and wipes the other man's mouth before heading into the tiny ensuite for a shower.

He emerges, a towel wrapped around his hips to see John waking up, blinking blearily up at him. Sherlock sits on the end of the bed and suggests to John that they needn't go back to London today; the room is available for one more night and perhaps they could explore the area. He laughs at John's suggestion that they look for Nessie.

Mrs Hudson notes, when they return to Baker Street the next evening, how relaxed both men look. She smiles when she sees the head of a cuddly Nessie toy poking out of Sherlock's bag.

* * *

><p>16.<p>

Sadly the state of relaxation does not last long. John has secured some work in a local surgery, part time maternity cover and coming back from work after a particularly difficult day, he's looking forward to food of some description, tea and crap telly.

Instead he enters the flat to find an unpleasant smell and every surface in the small kitchen covered in distillation equipment. Except for the table; on the table are various samples of what look like urine. A row ensues, resulting in much shouting and eventually John slamming his way outside, texting Greg on his mobile to see if he's available for a pint. Happily he is; equally happy is he that Greg is willing to listen to two hours of John bitching about his flatmate, before they call it a night, John stopping at the local Chinese on the way home.

Greg heads home as well, smiling to himself. Why doesn't John see that no sane person could ever put up with the shit that Sherlock puts John through, yet would still want to be with him?

* * *

><p>17.<p>

"John?" Sherlock is looking at his flatmate in concern as the mobile slips from the doctor's hand.

"It's… Harry, there's been an accident." John sits heavily in his chair and cradles his face in his hands. A small voice is still issuing from the mobile, "hello? hello? Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock swiftly pick up the phone and deals with the person on the other end, establishing that Harry is currently in surgery at St Thomas's. He gets the relevant details and then takes John's hands away from his face.

"John," he says intently. "I'll come with you to the hospital." John shoots him a look of gratitude.

The two of them take a taxi and Sherlock fetches coffee while John paces the corridor, waiting for news. And he is there for John when he receives the welcome news that Harry has made it through the surgery.

* * *

><p>18.<p>

Harry is out of hospital a month after her accident. John takes her home and makes sure she has everything she needs. He gets a text from Sherlock while he's there asking him to come to a crime scene. He's torn between fraternal responsibility and wanting to be by Sherlock's side. Harry stares at him as she settles herself on to the couch, then smirks.

"I'll be fine, John, you go off and be with your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," replies John, without any heat. It's true he's not; Sherlock is so much more than that.

"Call me if you need anything," says John as he places a kiss on his sister's cheek, before leaving. Harry smiles in his wake, wondering when John will finally wake up to what she'd seen when, in the hospital, she saw Sherlock comforting her brother.

* * *

><p>19.<p>

Another quiet evening in front of the telly, watching some game show that Sherlock is delighting in ridiculing. John finds that even more entertaining than the show itself. They are both lounging on the sofa in their pyjamas and dressing gowns and Sherlock's feet are in John's lap. They are long, thin and elegant, just the feet for handmade Italian leather shoes that cost more than John's entire wardrobe.

That's not the most interesting aspect of Sherlock's feet; no, it's that the nails are painted various, similar shades of purple. Apparently he'd persuaded Molly to paint his toenails a few days ago, wanting to record wear patterns for different brands of nail varnish. Sherlock leans over and slaps his hand when John rubs the nail on his right big toe. It's the exact same shade of that purple shirt that John likes him in, the one he has privately dubbed the 'purple shirt of sex'.

He fires a quick apologetic look at the detective, who then proceeds to try and bury his feet further into John's lap as they are ice cold. John puts up a token protest before sighing softly and massaging some warmth into them. Sherlock falls asleep and John gets up, laying a blanket over him. He gazes down at him and lightly ruffles his hair before heading to his own bed to sleep.

* * *

><p>20.<p>

John has finally got around to taking the photos off his camera and onto his laptop, the ones he took when he and Sherlock went to Scotland. He takes the laptop downstairs to Mrs Hudson as he'd promised ages ago to show them to her.

"Oh, lovely!" She exclaims, sighing happily at the photos of lochs and mountains, one of John outside the Ben Nevis distillery and one of Sherlock next to Neptune's Staircase. There is one, taken by a passer by, of the two men by Lochan Meall an t-Suidhe on Ben Nevis, the highest they managed to climb. They stand with their arms slung around each other, wide smiles on their rather flushed faces.

"You must let me have a copy of this one," declares Mrs Hudson. "You both look so happy and healthy!"

John smiles. He ends getting two copies printed, one for Mrs Hudson and another which sits in his wallet.

**A/N ****The Scotland part is based on my own experiences in visiting Fort William, in my favourite part of the world. My DH and I hope to retire there once the kids have grown.**

**We used to stay at the Lochan Cottage pre kids, nowadays we tend to rent a cottage. It really was a gorgeous place to stay.**


	3. Chapter 3

21.

One night, John comes thundering down the stairs.

"Why," he says, his voice dangerously soft. "Is my bedroom filled with archive boxes? I can't even get to my bed, let alone sleep in it!"

"I had to put them somewhere," says Sherlock, petulantly. "I'll get rid of them once I've finished going through them."

"What the hell is in them?"

The detective's face lights up.

"Molly sent it over. Thirty years of post mortem reports of victims of violence. I've promised I'll return them within the week, Mycroft had to pull quite a few strings to get them for me. Belated birthday present."

John tries to smother a grin. This is so typical of the Holmes brothers. He makes an executive decision; he goes upstairs, luckily the access to his dresser is unimpeded so he's able to get clean pyjamas. He goes downstairs, tells Sherlock 'good night' before going to the detective's bedroom.

"I sleep on the right, remember," shouts Sherlock.

John smiles softly as he gets himself comfy on the left side of the bed, inhaling the scents that are uniquely Sherlock's as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

><p>22.<p>

One would think that once the archive boxes had been returned to St Bart's, John would move back into his own bed. However the boxes are dusty and he needs to change the sheets. Only the spare bed clothes are still in the laundry bag. John swears softly under his breath when he remembered he was supposed to take them to the laundrette a couple of days ago but Sherlock had commandeered him into helping him find the most interesting causes of death in the PM reports.

He takes both bags to the laundrette and pays for the two day service as he doesn't want to hang around for three hours doing the washing when he needs to go to Tesco.

Sherlock doesn't even comment when John retires for the night in his bedroom, although John can't help but notice the open, empty drawer on his side of the bed. Neither do either men remark on the fact that they both have been sleeping better and, in Sherlock's case, much longer since they began sharing a bed.

Sherlock still tends to go to bed much later and gets up much earlier than John, though the latter habit is proving less entrenched than he'd thought as he finds himself reluctant to leave the warm embrace of his blogger, who it seems, it definitely a cuddler in bed.

* * *

><p>23.<p>

So even after John picks up the laundry three days later, it is still sat on his bed for at least a week and John is still in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock tells him that he has turned the thermostat down a couple of degrees and John works out that they are probably saving at least ten percent off their gas bill by doing so.

Then Sherlock starts make noises about turning the spare bedroom into a lab, which means their kitchen could actually function as a kitchen for the actual preparation of actual food and not as a biomedical lab, a prospect that John is very enthusiastic about.

Then John finds that Sherlock has emptied some more drawers and made space in his wardrobe. It seems a fait accompli that the two of them would be sharing a room permanently from now on. He shrugs to himself; nothing about his relationship with Sherlock can be defined by any ordinary standards. And he is surprisingly alright with that.

* * *

><p>24.<p>

One morning, John wakes up first before Sherlock, for the first time since they've been sharing a bed. Unsurprising, as the detective has not slept for three days as he was on a case. The doctor is utterly mortified to find himself spooning his friend, especially as his morning wood is pressing into his bedmate's rather nice arse, but as he gently pulls away he looks over at the younger man, wondering if they ever had any kind of personal boundaries.

He can't help but notice how young Sherlock looks in his sleep, his face completely relaxed. There is a strange churning feeling in his gut as he stares and he knows that what he is feeling is not just the love for a very close friend but something more. Something that he struggles to define.

Yet his floundering emotions don't stop him from pressing his lips gently against Sherlock's forehead or stroking a fine cheekbone. He leaves the room to use the loo thinking that perhaps they need to talk but knowing that they probably won't.

* * *

><p>25.<p>

They don't get a chance to talk; when Sherlock gets out of bed, John has gone to work, called into cover someone who's off sick. Then Sherlock gets an unexpected phone call, from Janine, of all people. She tells him she has bought a cottage on the Downs as she said she would; bought from the proceeds from selling her story about her love affair with the consulting detective.

He is intrigued when she mentions the beehives but declines her invitation to visit. John wouldn't like it. He remembers the look on the doctor's face when he saw the lurid headlines after Janine's story first broke. Astounding how important it had seemed to assure John that he hadn't slept with Janine, had no interest in her sexually and was using her in his pursuit of Magnusson. And when other women came forward to claim that they too had bedded the famous consulting detective, he reminded John that women were 'not really my area'.

The look of relief on John's face was telling. Especially given that John was married at the time.

* * *

><p>26.<p>

Neither of them think much about Mary. John took wedding album, put together from the photos taken by their murderous photographer after Lestrade took them off the man's camera, as well as photos given to them by the guests, with him when he moved back to Baker Street. He systematically removed every picture that Mary was in, not wanting any reminders of her or the baby he'd once believed was his.

But he couldn't bring himself to destroy the other pictures, especially those of Sherlock, looking at him with a love that no one would've thought the self-proclaimed sociopath was capable of.

It was at the wedding that John realised the depth of Sherlock's love for him and where he himself had experienced a terrible grief at the opportunity he'd lost when Sherlock faked his death.

Looking forward, he knows he has that opportunity again and a small voice whispers in his ear constantly, _don't fuck this up_.

* * *

><p>27.<p>

He moves his clothes and other possessions into the drawers Sherlock has emptied. He uses the empty bedside drawer to store packs of tissues, his dog tags, spare change and keys to Harry's flat. And his gun, of course.

He also puts in there his stash of condoms and lube; he figures that, given he knows Sherlock has no respect for his privacy, the detective already knows of their existence. He thinks fleetingly of the possibility that they may be used in this bed but dismisses it. He's long given up denying that he occasionally thinks about Sherlock while having a wank, yet he has trouble actually acknowledging the detective having sex. He has long considered that his flatmate was either asexual or deliberately celibate.

So he's careful to keep the touches non sexual but intimate, a hand on the small of Sherlock's back when they are approaching a crime scene, ruffling his hair whilst he's sat down in his green leather chair, allowing Sherlock to cuddle up to him when they are on the sofa, watching the telly. And Sherlock responds with his own, reciprocal gestures and it warms John inside, yet leaves him wanting more.

* * *

><p>28.<p>

John wakes up abruptly, hearing Sherlock shouting incoherently. He throws himself out of bed, pulling his gun from the bedside cabinet, heart hammering, in full Captain Watson mode. He opens the door to the bedroom and makes his way to the living room to where Sherlock must be, though he lowers the gun as he can't hear anyone else in the flat.

Sherlock is lying on the sofa, eyes closed, his arms flung up as if warding something away.

"No, please, stop!" he cries out and John puts the gun down on a shelf and rushes to his flatmate's side, realising he is having a nightmare. He catches Sherlock's flailing arms and shakes him gently.

"Wake up," he says. "It's not real!"

Sherlock's eyes fly open.

"John… I thought…" he lapses into silence then takes a deep, shuddering breath. John helps him sit up, releasing his arms and Sherlock blinks rapidly as his heartbeat slows down, the adrenaline rush of the nightmare slowly dissipating.

"Come to bed, love," says John softly. As docile as a small child, Sherlock allows the doctor to lead him to their bedroom.

They fall asleep in each other's arms.

* * *

><p>29.<p>

The next morning, both of them are seized with the urge to laze in bed. John does get up to use the loo, then comes back eventually, bearing tea. Sherlock is sat up with his laptop and mutters a 'thank you' when John places his tea next to him.

"Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare?" he asks, as he slides back into the bed beside him. Sherlock closes the laptop and looks at him.

"I was dreaming about Serbia," he says, quietly. "I was convinced I was going to die there. If Mycroft hadn't come…"

John takes Sherlock's hand and squeezes it. Sherlock rarely speaks of the time between his fall and his return, but the doctor found out from Mycroft that just before he returned, Sherlock had been tortured after being captured and would have been killed if not for his older brother's timely rescue. It ate John up inside to think that he had slammed his friend on the floor of that restaurant, probably breaking open the still healing wounds on his back.

"I know it didn't seem so at first," says John. "But I'm glad you came back. Thank you for giving me my miracle. Just promise me, that you won't ever leave me again."

"John, I swear, I'll always want you by my side." John lifts the hand he is still holding and kisses the knuckles gently.

* * *

><p>30.<p>

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?" John stands up, after tying his shoe lace. He's off out with Greg; the two of them are going to watch the Chelsea V Man U league game at the DI's local. Sherlock doesn't say anything at first and John is itching with impatience to leave, as kick off is in less than half an hour. He picks up his jacket, checks the pockets for his keys, wallet and mobile.

"John-" Sherlock stops, looking oddly tongue-tied.

"Spit it out, mate, I'm supposed to be meeting Greg in fifteen minutes!"

"You know I love you, don't you?" Sherlock looks at him expectantly. John is floored momentarily. Yes he knows that and he knows that he loves Sherlock as well. But to have it stated so baldly has him off kilter. After all, neither he or Sherlock are much good at feelings and that sort of crap.

"Ummm," he says, feeling horribly awkward. "I love you too, Sherlock, but I really need to go. Talk to you later?"

He rushes out of the door with unnecessary haste, so doesn't hear the softly, sadly spoken words.

"No, John, I mean that I _love _you."


	4. Chapter 4

31.

He makes it just in time, greeting Greg with a friendly handshake and a pat on the arm. John gets in the first round, after they make it to the bar, nodding at a few familiar faces.

The football match is a good one, both teams playing well but John catches himself watching the other occupants of the pub, mainly men but quite a few women. There's much shouting, arm thumping, manly hugs and quaffing of beer. He tries to imagine him and Sherlock acting like the men in the pub and nearly laughs out loud.

They have a couple more pints after the match finishes, then head off. They both go to the Chinese and John orders enough for himself and Sherlock, inviting Greg back to his flat to eat.

As they walk back, John asks Greg how long he's known Sherlock.

"Dunno, about eight, nine years, I guess. Why?"

"Have you ever known him to be in a relationship?"

"Never… at least not until you came along." John shakes his head, ignoring Greg's smirk.

* * *

><p>32.<p>

They arrive at Baker Street. Sherlock is in the kitchen, conducting some kind of experiment, dressed in pyjamas and a ratty brown dressing gown.

"Food," says John, holding up the bag. Sherlock is too engrossed in examining slides to notice. John gets three plates out then he and Greg dish up, John placing a plate and fork by Sherlock's elbow.

He and Greg sit in the living room placing their plates on their knees. The two of them discuss the match while eating. When finished, John takes their plates to the kitchen. He frowns at Sherlock, whose plate untouched. He points at it, demanding that the detective eat.

"What?" demands John, seeing the DI grinning at him. Greg holds up his hands.

"Nothing, mate!" the DI protests. "It's just the two of you…"

John was about to say that he and Sherlock weren't a couple but decided not to bother. Because for all intents and purposes, they _were_.

* * *

><p>33.<p>

After Greg leaves, John toys with the idea of talking to Sherlock about his declaration. He wants to know what it means, if it means what he hopes it means. He admits to himself he feels out of his depth; he's had relationships, sure, but nothing serious. Medical School followed by the Army didn't leave him a lot of time to invest in a serious relationship. He's had quite a few torrid affairs, mostly with women, but also with a couple of men in Afghanistan, after all he had his 'Three Continents Watson" moniker for a good reason.

But, apart from an all too brief affair with James Sholto in Afghanistan, his only serious relationship was with Mary, who turned out to be a killer, a liar and a cheat. However, he couldn't forget that he'd once loved her and perhaps there was a time she loved him. If he is honest with himself, though, had Sherlock never faked his death, he was certain that he and Mary never would've happened. He'd needed her, to try and put back the bleeding and broken pieces of his heart when he thought his best friend had committed suicide. And to give her her due, she had done that.

But walking away from his marriage and back to Baker Street hadn't been anywhere near as hard as it ought to have been.

* * *

><p>34.<p>

The talk doesn't happen there and then. John, lost in his musings, fails to notice Sherlock leaving. When he finally realises he's alone, he texts him and Sherlock replies to say he is at Bart's with Molly. John rolls his eyes. No doubt when Sherlock returns, it will be with some random body parts.

In anticipation of this event, he checks the fridge, moving all the food stuff, not that there was much, onto the higher shelves to leave a couple empty for the mad genius' newest acquisitions. He even lines the bottom, under the salad drawer, with newspaper for easier clean up.

He notes they are low on milk and decides to head to Tesco, after making up a shopping list. He texts Sherlock to let him know and to ask if there is anything he wants picking up.

_**WD40, caustic soda and Mr Matey bubble bath - SH**_

John shakes his head in wonderment and adds them to the list. He chuckles to himself; Sherlock's taste in toiletries tends to run to the expensive… except for his bubblebath. He heads off to Tesco, hoping they have the pirate one in stock.

* * *

><p>35.<p>

They have a joint bank account. They use it for paying the bills and and the shopping. Sherlock is adamant that payments for his cases goes in there and John also adds in the money he earns from his locum work. They set this up after he moved back to Baker Street as John used to get really pissed off at Sherlock's lackadaisical attitude to paying the bills.

He keeps back his army pension for his personal needs and he is aware that Sherlock has a large trust fund, which keeps him in his expensive clothes and shoes but that he draws on it reluctantly as it strictly monitored by Mycroft.

John carefully manages the account using a spreadsheet, he is quite proud of his skills with Excel, using it to track the money coming in and out, justifying why sometimes Sherlock needs to take the easy, boring cases that pay well every once in a while.

* * *

><p>36.<p>

Sherlock is busy putting God-knows-what in the fridge, when John returns with the shopping. He is please to observed that the packages are well wrapped and are being put on the bottom shelf, which he had cleared earlier.

"What are they?" he asks.

"Sections of small intestines," came the reply. "And stomach contents."

"Nice," mutters John, dryly. "You know, maybe you should go ahead on convert upstairs to a lab."

Sherlock looks at him sharply, then turns his attention to putting his remaining samples in the fridge. He looks thoughtful when he straightens up and, uncharacteristically, helps John put the shopping away. He smiles brightly when he sees the Mr Matey Peg Leg bubble bath, before whisking it away to the bathroom.

The detective spends the evening on his laptop, his wallet on the arm of the chair. He's still at it when John retires for the night.

* * *

><p>37.<p>

Sherlock goes through with the plan to convert John's old bedroom into a lab. He even buys a new fridge freezer to put in it which, he announces, means that only food will be kept in the one in the kitchen. John is rather overwhelmed with gratitude, though he is then bemused that he feels grateful about something that really ought not to have happened in the first place.

He helps Sherlock ferry his chemistry equipment up stairs, though the detective insists on carrying the microscope himself. He has even, wonder of wonders, purchased a proper chemicals cabinet. John gets him a little first aid kit as a present to keep up there.

There's a new bench as well and John sees two lab stools tucked under it. He makes tea for them both, while Sherlock studies soil samples using his microscope. He thinks about making some dinner, a meal from scratch since the kitchen is free from any hazards apart from the ones you'd expect to find in a kitchen. He's thinking about getting a table cloth, maybe a nice candle for the kitchen table as he goes downstairs to cook. He's very fond of candlelight, especially as it reflects off iridescent green eyes.

* * *

><p>38.<p>

John is reading the newspaper, when a headline catches his eye. With a feeling of dread, he reads the story. He sighs sadly as he reads that the fiancée of a man whose killer they'd helped catch had committed suicide. Apparently she had been eaten up with guilt at inadvertently leading his killer to him. He delivers a brief summary to Sherlock.

Sherlock mulls the news carefully, then looks at John a question in his eyes. John puts the newspaper down and gets up abruptly.

"No," he says decisively, rubbing his face. "No, Sherlock. I know what you want to ask and you don't-" he falters and takes a shuddering breath. "No... you can't ask me that!" He grabs his jacket and walks out of the flat.

He goes to Regent's Park and sits on a bench, staring blankly at the grass and the passers-by. There were three intensely dark periods of his life; just after he was shot in Afghanistan, in London, shortly before he met Sherlock and the worst, when he thought Sherlock had killed himself. He never wanted Sherlock to know how close he'd been to ending it all.

* * *

><p>39.<p>

He returns eventually, after all, he doesn't really have anywhere else to go. His home is 221B Baker Street, with the only consulting detective in the world. A man whose life, he's saved, a man for whom he would give up his own life. A man who went to hell and back for him.

Sherlock looks up at him apprehensively as he hangs up his coat and toes off his shoes.

"Is that how you know you're in love? That life without them is unthinkable?"

"Don't think it's quite that simple," says John, flopping onto the sofa next to the younger man. "There's physical attraction… shared interests… romance." He clears his throat nervously. "Sex, for most people, is a big thing as well."

"You had all that with Mary," Sherlock states flatly.

"Well, yes, I did marry her, you know. It was love… until I found out about the lies." _Until she tried to kill you_.

The conversation is interrupted by a call from Lestrade, he wants them at a crime scene, post haste. Both of them seem relieved as they grab shoes and coats, before heading out, to do what they do best.

* * *

><p>40.<p>

Sherlock solved the case in less than a day, more or less by himself as John had to go to work. It wasn't a particular challenge but John still looks enraptured when Sherlock explains it to him. Sherlock will never tire of John's praise and John will never cease to be amazed by the most incredible mind he has ever known.

They are both so in love with each other, yet it is becoming increasingly apparent that they are teetering on the edge of an open acknowledgement of what they are to each other. John holds back from asking Sherlock to give him something he thinks the other man can't give and Sherlock doesn't think John wants that from him anyway.

There's a conversation they need to have but both of them are reluctant to start it. And they'd better do it soon before events conspire to leave them in limbo forever.

And what is it that they want from each other? Surprisingly, it's not sex, although that's something neither of them would object to. It's open _commitment._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Thank you for your review, guest and here's what happens next!**

41.

Sherlock is almost tearing his hair out in frustration. Greg has given him a case and he is tying himself up in knots due to the lack of useful data. Anderson has already received a tongue lashing from the detective because he moved the body. John quietly observes and acts as a sounding board, following him here there and everywhere, while the detective searches for anything he can use to find who killed a young teaching assistant, who had no enemies, no debts, no scorned lovers. Nothing to justify such a vicious killing.

It's John who finds the key, the missing puzzle piece that enables Sherlock to put a series of unconnected clues together. He who sees the motivation that Sherlock had missed, that led them to the man who regularly delivered packages from the TA's favourite catalogue.

Sherlock is so ecstatic at John that he kisses the doctor soundly on the mouth. John is shocked at first but just as he thinks about returning the kiss, Sherlock pulls away, focus back on the case.

* * *

><p>42.<p>

John can't help himself; his mind keeps dwelling on the kiss. Sherlock makes no mention of it as they take a taxi home, confident that Lestrade and his team have apprehended the man. His eyes slide over to the detective, who he can see after four days of frustration, little food and less sleep, is about to crash.

He bundles Sherlock into the flat and orders him into his chair, insisting on him eating something before he goes to bed. Luckily there's some milk in the fridge still, so he makes them both tea, extra sweet for Sherlock, as well as porridge with a thick dollop of honey. He watches Sherlock intently as the detective drinks and eats, determined to see him clean his bowl. He does and John takes the bowl from him and points towards the bedroom.

"Only if you come too," says Sherlock with a mischievous smile. John switches off both their mobiles, they change into their pyjamas and fall into bed.

"Sleep, Sherlock," orders John.

Sherlock closes his eyes and huffs softly. He reaches over and takes John's smaller hand in his.

"My conductor of light," he says softly, before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

><p>43.<p>

John is in the local library, perusing through some of the latest crime thrillers when he is disturbed by a tap on the shoulder.

"Dr. Watson? You are Dr. John Watson?" The voice and the finger belongs to a rather attractive, thirty something woman, very petite, dressed in a bohemian style, her dark, wiry hair pulled back into neat cornrows, emphasising her large, dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. Her mouth is pulled into a half smile, even white teeth flashing and her whole aura is of self-assured friendliness.

"Err, yeah, yeah I am," he replies with a grin. "Do I know you?"

"Heylia James," she replies. "I'm a big fan of your blog, it's fascinating! Tell me, is it all true?" She asks in such a guileless way that he isn't offended. He assures her it is and she begs to buy him a coffee from Costa next door so she can hear more about his 'adventures'.

He agrees, flattered by her attention and he follows her out of the library. He can't see the harm in having a friendly chat with a fan over coffee. But there is a lingering sense of guilt as he thinks of Sherlock, so he's determined that a chat is as far as it will go. No matter how appealing she looks.

* * *

><p>44.<p>

They have a coffee and she asks innocuous questions about some of the cases on the blog, seeming very interested and, thankfully, not particularly flirty. But when she starts asking questions, personal questions, about Sherlock, he is on his guard, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

She realises the game is up and she smiles apologetically, sliding a business card, proclaiming she is a journalist for the Daily Express.

"Look, everyone's so curious about you and your… flatmate. There's been so many rumours. Wouldn't it be nice to get over your side of the story?"

John gets up, a cold look on his face.

"No," he says through gritted teeth. "You do not have permission to use anything I've told you in your rag."

He walks away, furious and humiliated, leaving the card on the table, hoping he didn't give anything damaging away.

* * *

><p>45.<p>

He plays the encounter over and over in his mind, angry with himself. It isn't just he'd failed to spot she was a journalist, after a story about the famous detecting duo, but that he had responded to her obvious flattery and flirtation. Pre-Mary, he wouldn't have hesitated on asking her for a date.

It feels as though he was being… unfaithful, by finding her attractive, by accepting her offer of a coffee. Unfaithful to his flatmate, whom he was sleeping with in the literal sense, though not in the euphemistic sense.

Perhaps it was just as well she was not on the level. Because if she was simply a fan who found him attractive enough to want to date him, he knows he would have turned her down, because of Sherlock. And what else could that possibly imply, except that he'd accepted that he and Sherlock were together, a couple, even if they haven't explicitly agreed to that?

They needed to have that talk...

* * *

><p>46.<p>

He makes his way back to Baker Street, arriving just as the promised downpour starts and goes up to the flat. Sherlock is dressed in his usual sharp black suit, the purple shirt of sex, his feet bare. Feet that seem strangely enticing poking out from the bottom of those narrow, well tailored trousers that seem to cling to those slender, endless legs and…

_Oh God._ His mind flashes back to the number of times he's wanked in the shower, imagining Sherlock's long, slender fingers on his cock and is glad he hasn't taking his raincoat off as he is suddenly half hard. Talking is the last thing on his mind right now as his eyes fix on that sinfully plush cupid's bow, wondering how it would feel against his own lips. He was consumed with the urge to find out.

John takes a deep breath. _You invaded Afghanistan, you can do this!_ He walks up to the taller man, who is sitting at the table in the living room. Slowly, cautiously, he approaches Sherlock as if he was an injured fawn, before cupping his face gently in his hands, giving the younger man ample opportunity to pull away.

Sherlock remains uncharacteristically silent, his green eyes wide, pupils dilated. John bends towards him, capturing the taller man's lips with his own.

* * *

><p>47.<p>

Sherlock stares up at John enters the flat, looking flustered, his hair and raincoat slightly damp. He notes the dilated pupils, the increased respiration, more that what he'd expect from him running up the stairs; John keeps himself very fit. He also sees the slight flush of his cheek and the tremor in his left hand.

He's aware his own heartbeat and respiration increasing as John approaches him, an intense look on his face. His mind racing, a thousand thoughts flashing through, he doesn't resist when John cups his face and presses his lips to Sherlock's.

His mind stops, his focus narrowed to the feel of soft lips upon his own. He doesn't know what to do though, freezing in place. He's never kissed anyone like this before. Not someone he loved, at least. He'd kept sexual contact with Janine to a minimum and other such contact he's had in the past didn't involve kissing. He leans up into John's embrace, silently, asking, _What do I do?_

* * *

><p>48.<p>

John senses Sherlock's hesitancy, but he's not pulling away, if anything, the taller man is trying to increase contact, his hands now resting lightly on John's hips. It was almost as if…

_No, surely not, I can't possibly be the first person to kiss Sherlock Holmes?_ He immediately dismisses the thought, remembering Janine. Tentatively he sucks on Sherlock's lower lip then presses his tongue in gently. He feels Sherlock stiffen slightly then relax, letting out a low moan, barely audible.

Then Sherlock is reciprocating, getting into the kiss, his tongue caressing John's, sending a hot shiver down to his groin. And he's no longer half hard, he's fully erect and he knows he needs to stop this right now, before he embarrasses himself as he hasn't done since he was a horny teenager.

* * *

><p>49.<p>

"Sherlock..." says John, when he pulls away. "Christ…"

The detective slowly stands up, looking thoughtfully down at John.

"Do you want to have sex?" he asks, much the way anyone else would ask if they'd like a cup of tea.

"No! I mean.. err, not right now but maybe… um… sometime soon?" John blushes furiously, stumbling over his words.

"But you are clearly aroused," he says, with a puzzled look. "As... am I." A faint blush crests his cheeks.

"You are?" John winces as his voice came out as a squeak. He takes a deep breath.

"Look, I just think we shouldn't rush into this… we should talk about it first, see where we are going with it, yeah?"

Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes.

"I don't understand why this is so difficult. You want to shag me. I want to shag you. So let's just go into the bedroom and shag!"

"Sherlock, we just… we can't just do this. I'm not willing to throw away all these months of putting our friendship back together for a shag!" He holds his hand up when Sherlock tries to speak. "Please, just let's talk about this. Please."

"Cup of tea, then, John?"

* * *

><p>50.<p>

Sherlock makes tea and they sit on the sofa, carefully not touching, not sure where to begin. They sip their tea and John looks at Sherlock nervously.

"Do you really want to have sex?" blurts out John. "I… always thought, well that you didn't do sex. At least that's what Mycroft and Irene Adler seem to imply?"

Sherlock cocked a disdainful eyebrow.

"I took a decision some years ago to abstain. I had no wish for any kind of romantic or sexual attachment to cloud my mind. However, their implication that I am a virgin is false."

John listened, a churning in his gut when Sherlock quietly informs in, in the briefest of terms, his sexual history. It disturbs John to hear how the younger man allowed others to use his body, how he would catalogue the sensations of each sexual act but then lock the information away. All one night stands, all with men. It sounds cold and empty.

"What's changed?" asks John, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"You," came the reply. "You've changed me."

**A/N For**** my non UK readers, the Daily Express is a right wing, slightly upmarket tabloid, most famous for their sleazy exposé of Princess Diana and Dodi Al-Fayed.**


	6. Chapter 6

51.

It's true, John has changed him. Mrs Hudson knows, Greg knows, Molly knows, Mycroft knows… hell, even Anderson and Donovan know. Sherlock really was a machine before John, yet somehow the emotionally constipated, PTSD suffering ex-army man, humanised him. Found his heart and made him care.

But there is always a flip side to all of these things. For in discovering he had a heart, Sherlock learned the hard way why caring was not an advantage; because it exposed him to pain. Physical pain he could cope with, from the physical bullying he'd endured at school, to the pain of withdrawal when in rehab, to the hurts he received in the course of his work (often healed by the gentle hands of his army doctor) to the tortures he'd endured during his descent into hell, taking apart Moriarty's web.

But none of that pain could hold a candle to the pain of loneliness in his time away, nor the pain of heartbreak seeing John again, who appeared to hate him and had pledged himself to another.

* * *

><p>52.<p>

John is the only one who doesn't see this. After all, he didn't know the Sherlock before John. He is the observer who alters the outcome, the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle in action. What Sherlock has revealed to him about his sexual history reminds him that the detective didn't merely spring into existence like Athena from the head of Zeus, the moment the doctor walked into that lab in St Bart's, but had another life before him. One that he now desperately needs to know about.

It's like he has been staring through a window into the world outside, only seeing a fraction of it and then someone has opened the door to allow him out. Is it all relevant to what they are now? Probably not. But John thinks it may affect their future.

Both of them are treading on unfamiliar ground. Neither of them have been so emotionally invested in another before, though John had at least a facsimile of it with Mary and to some extent James Sholto. They are building a house of cards which might come crashing down around their ears

* * *

><p>53.<p>

"Sherlock," says John softly as he takes the younger man's hand in his own. "You're not the only one who's changed."

He caresses the palm of Sherlock's hand with a calloused thumb. Tracing circles that seem to soothe the detective's teeming mind.

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock replies, recalling an underground carriage, a bomb and being on his knees begging for forgiveness. He recalls John telling him that he was no good at this sort of thing. If that is true, how can they possibly proceed from here?

"I meant it, John," he says quietly. "I love you. This isn't some kind of game to me, or experiment… oh don't look at me like that, I can see it in your face what you are thinking!"

John jerks his hand away, bristling, but also ashamed as yes, it has occurred to him to wonder precisely that. But before he has the chance to apologise, Mrs Hudson noisily enters the room.

* * *

><p>54.<p>

She enters the room with a box of home made biscuits; she couldn't possibly eat them all so would the boys like some? They're ginger biscuits, one of Sherlock's favourites as she well knows when she made them. Having had no children of her own, she loves to spoil her boys.

She pretends indifference to the charged atmosphere as she fusses around the room, seeming oblivious to John's thinly veiled yet very polite attempts to induce her to leave. She tells them she's making a lamb casserole and would they like her to bring some up later for their dinner?

Sherlock gets up from the sofa and ushers her out of the flat, telling her no, the casserole will not be necessary, he and John have plans this evening.

"Ooh, are you going out on a date?" She clutches her hands together, quivering with excitement. She sees a look pass between the two men, before they speak.

"Yes," they say simultaneously, then they grin at each other.

* * *

><p>55.<p>

It seems fitting to go to Angelo's, to sit at that window table, fortunately no murderous cabbies to look out for. There's even a candle, provided by the gregarious restaurant owner. They'd walked over together, not quite touching but close enough.

"So we're really doing this, then?" John had said on the way.

"This is what people do? They go on dates, spend time together, have fun," replies Sherlock. "Though I draw the line at pet names." John chuckles at that.

So they enjoy a nice meal together, both of them eating a meal, unlike that first time here. There are lingering looks and not so casual touches.

"Is this a fresh start for us?" asks John, as he mops up his sauce with some crusty Italian bread.

"I suppose that is one way we can look at it. Although if that means you require your bedroom back…"

"No!" chuckles John. "It's fine, it's all fine… I like this, what we're doing."

* * *

><p>56.<p>

"I don't want anything to change between us," blurts out John. "I mean... " he runs a hand through his hair and licks his lips. "I mean, I still expect to go on cases with you and shout at you for putting body parts on the kitchen table and so on. It's just we'll do more than that."

"You mean sex?" says Sherlock. They are sat on the sofa and Sherlock has his legs draped over John's lap. John is stroking his slender, muscular calves through the sleek material of his trousers.

"Yeah," says John, hesitantly. "Look, you can tell me to mind my own business, but I admit I'm curious. When was the last time you had sex?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and John knew he was delving into his mind palace.

"Fifteen years, three months and fourteen days ago," he says flatly. He opens his eyes and looks up at John, who is trying to keep the surprise off his face. He then reaches for Sherlock's hand and pulls him towards him.

"Come here, you," he says, his voice warm and sweet like melted caramel.

* * *

><p>57.<p>

So many sensations, he'll have to expand John's wing of his mind palace to encompass them all. John is kissing him, tender and sweet. He feels his doctor's fingers gently tugging on his curls, while Sherlock lays his hands against John's chest.

John tastes of Italian herbs, of wine, of honesty, trust and love. Sherlock's mouth is a temple and the doctor is the priest worshipping it. Sherlock's acquired enough knowledge second hand to know that kissing someone you loved could be like this but nothing beats empirical data. His work has been built on the direct acquisition of information.

They are an island in the stream, the world outside passing by unnoticed by either of them. A serial killer could dump a dozen victims at their door and they wouldn't care.

He's learning from a master, the detective thinks, pleasantly surprised at the reversal. Sherlock has always been the teacher, though both of them would agree that he is a terribly impatient and unforgiving one. John on the other hand is infinitely patient, for he knows the rewards will be immense.

* * *

><p>58.<p>

John can't quite believe what is happening, to have Sherlock so pliant and responsive to his touch. Sherlock tends to exist in two states, one of frenetic activity, a tornado of intellectualism demolishing everything in his path or he sinks into a kind of torpor, syncopated with flashes of ennui inspired chaos.

He moves from his worship of Sherlock's mouth and traces a sharp cheekbone under his lips. Not sharp enough to cut though it feels like the edge of fine china, smooth and unyielding.

God, he wants this so much, hardly able to believe he can do this, to touch Sherlock this way. Yet he pulls away, not before planting a soft kiss on Sherlock's swollen lips.

* * *

><p>59.<p>

Green eyes meet blue ones, unguarded and showing all they are feeling. Silent communication flows between them. They will only experience this moment once, this transition from best friends to lovers and they both want it to last. They have been through too much pain, grief and suffering to want it any other way.

Inside 221B there has been a seismic shift, which seems to reverberate around the room. Neither are aware of the city outside, the sound of passing traffic muted. The outside world has seemingly fallen away.

But that is only metaphorically speaking, the world around them has the habit of intruding at the most inopportune moments, as Sherlock's mobile starts to ring. He looks towards the mobile, his hand twitching. John smiles in understanding and cups Sherlock's cheek with one hand, while retrieving the phone with the other.

* * *

><p>60.<p>

The case is at least an eight and Sherlock is effervescent with excitement, bouncing around the room, firing questions down his mobile as he puts his shoes on and lets John help him with his coat. The army doctor gets his own jacket, checking for the usual in his pockets before they head out of the door to hail a cab.

The crime scene isn't far, only fifteen minutes away, Sherlock is on his mobile still but this time searching the internet for information. John pays the taxi on arrival and they get out to make their way to the ribbons of tape.

Soon Sherlock is in full deduction mode and John watches him, enraptured. His eyes narrow as he sees Donovan approaching and when she opens her mouth, John gives her a glare so fierce, she might have burnt up on the spot. Instead she says nothing, silently observing the consulting detective at work.

Greg Lestrade merely looks on, suppressing a smile that would be highly inappropriate with a dead body just six feet away. He's not as unobservant as Sherlock often accuses him of being. Not when he can see the lovelight shining so brightly between the detecting duo.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Here be smut!**

61.

The case is as thrilling as Sherlock had hoped. And despite John's concerns about the change in the nature of their relationship, they carry on as they have before, with Sherlock joining the dots, following the trails of breadcrumbs and getting into a battle of wits with the delightfully cryptic adversary, while John followed grimly, providing muscle and apologising to those Sherlock tramples on in his pursuit of the puzzle.

It all culminates in an exciting race to get to the British Museum before the deadline set by their adversary, but they just make it and foil his anarchic plan to destroy priceless treasures. Lestrade forces the two of them into a press conference and Sherlock is forced into 'that bloody hat'. And John can't stop grinning in pride at his beautiful genius.

As soon as they can, they leave NSY and hail the first cab they see. Piling into the back they grin manically at each other, reliving the most exciting moments of the chase.

They make the cab wait while they pick up a Chinese to take back to Baker Street. And it feels refreshingly like old times.

* * *

><p>62.<p>

John disposes of the Chinese cartons, the leftovers stashed in the fridge. He tried to suppress a yawn but it's no good, neither he or Sherlock have had more than a couple of hours sleep in the last forty eight hours. Also, he's badly in need of a shower.

He has visions of himself and a long lean form in the shower and invites Sherlock to join him. He's embarrassed though when the taller man seems ambivalent, immediately becoming defensive in response. What Sherlock says stops him in his tracks.

"I've never exposed my body completely to another person," he explains. "At least not in a potentially sexual situation." John gazes at him in understanding and strips himself efficiently out of his clothes, enduring Sherlock's fascinated and intense gaze. Their eyes meet and Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly to allow the doctor to slowly and reverently remove his clothing.

He looks strangely vulnerable to John's eyes, skin pale and marked with thin scars on his back and thighs, faint needle tracks on the insides of his arms, the gunshot scar on his chest. He pulls Sherlock's head down so their noses are touching.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I love you. Now let's get clean, then into bed."

* * *

><p>63.<p>

It's awkward and a bit cramped and they both laugh as they slip and slide on the bath under the warm spray. It takes the edge off their obvious arousal as they slide soap slicked hands over each other. Sherlock traces his hands a number of times over John's scars, both the one on his chest and the one on his back, yet flinches when John touches his.

The shorter man looks up enquiringly and is told that those scars are 'tales for another time.' They take turn washing their hair and then get out, pulling warm towels out of the small airing cupboard, wrapping them around their hips. Extra towels are used to rub their hair dry and John can't help but smile at Sherlock with his wet curls sticking to his face. He reaches up and brushes them back.

As soon as they are dry they slip into bed, skin still warm from the shower, eyes heavy with sleep. Laying on their sides facing each other, John takes Sherlock's hand and kisses it, before whispering softly,

"Let's get some sleep; we'll talk in the morning."

* * *

><p>64.<p>

John wakes to the sound of the violin playing, something sweet and light, not Sherlock's usual choice. The pale October sun struggles through the window and John gets up to wander into the living room. Sherlock stops playing, goes to the kitchen and brings two mugs of tea, freshly made. John accepts the tea and accepts that is time to talk.

And talk they do, though John mainly listens, taking his hand to soothe the younger man, as he speaks flatly, in more detail, about his foray into sex at university, which involved cold, clinical encounters with anonymous men, most of the time he never even bothered to learn their names. It bored him after a while so he looked for something else to fend off the tedium that clouded his mind.

He then spoke of his spiral into drug addiction; how he traded his body for drugs while hiding from Mycroft, who kept trying to put him into rehab. Eventually he did get clean when he started consulting for the Met; Lestrade had refused to allow him access to case files or crime scenes unless he came off the drugs. He readily agreed; the challenge that solving crimes brought him helped stave off the boredom far better than the drugs that were leading him down a destructive path.

"And when The Work stopped being enough, there was you, John."

* * *

><p>65.<p>

John blinks at this last statement. He has often been awed, frustrated and made to feel stupid by Sherlock. There was nothing special about him; the invalid ex-army doctor, with the dead parents and alcoholic sister. Now a divorcé and a cuckolded one at that. Worn down, often feeling older than his years. With his aching shoulder, tremor and psychosomatic limp. The latter that Sherlock had cured for him.

Suddenly he chuckles.

"We're both, in our own ways of course, completely fucked up, aren't we? Maybe that's why we work so well together. Though, sometimes I think I must be the world's biggest mug, putting up with your shit."

"I assure, you John, that simply isn't true. You… complete me, you are necessary to me. Without you, I would be less than I am." Sherlock laughs softly. "I look back at the day we met at St. Bart's. The chance meeting that brought you into my life."

"Yeah… I keep thinking if I'd walked away from Mike that day… I'm not sure, if I'd still be here. I had nothing, until you."

* * *

><p>66.<p>

Sherlock gets up suddenly. He grabs John by the hand and pulls him up.

"Get dressed, we're going out." John protests; he hasn't had his breakfast yet but Sherlock promises to buy him a butty from Speedy's so John disappears into the bedroom to get some clean clothes. Twenty minutes later, both of them wrapped up warmly, they go downstairs and into Speedy's. John gets his bacon and egg butty and they both have takeaway coffee before they take off into the London streets. They spend the day aimlessly wandering, observing the bustle of people going about their lives, going to the South side of the Thames to Borough Market to purchase freshly made samosas, empanadas and spring rolls to nibble on as they walk along the riverside.

Most shops have Hallowe'en decorations up and Sherlock reminisces about one of his earliest cases, involving a pumpkin carving kit, a ten million pound inheritance and an estranged daughter. John buys packets of Haribo's and a bag of treat size Cadbury's buttons in anticipation of the children who may call on 221B trick or treating in a couple of weeks. Although what happened last year may encourage the parents to tell their children to avoid their door.

They finally return, cheeks red from the wind, a lazy wind, John calls it, greeting Mrs Hudson who is on her way out to the bingo.

* * *

><p>67.<p>

The transition from friends to lovers sometimes can be slow, especially if the lines are blurred. After all, John and Sherlock have been sharing a bed for weeks before they finally acknowledged that they were ready to take the next step in their relationship. So far it never seems to occur to either of them to fall into bed until they are virtually dead on their feet. And more often than not, it is John retiring hours before the younger man.

So it's not so much of a surprise that they don't then spend the next few weeks shagging each other's brains out, in what others would consider to be the 'honeymoon' period of their relationship. Because, when one thinks about it, that was back when Sherlock took a nearly fatal gamble with death and John took a life to save a life.

Both of them are quite keen to explore this new aspect of their relationship, but somehow it doesn't quite happen as soon as they expect, despite some rather enthusiastic snogging on the sofa. Sherlock rather likes that a lot and John certainly doesn't have any objection, especially during one session in which John discovers that there is a particular point on Sherlock's neck that turns the younger man into jelly.

Sherlock is mortified, he hasn't ever come in his pants before and John is ridiculously smug about it.

* * *

><p>68.<p>

Naturally revenge has to be exacted. Sherlock, being Sherlock, decides to exact said revenge about half an hour before Greg and Molly are due to come for dinner. The DI and the pathologist are now officially a couple as Greg's decree absolute came through a couple of weeks ago.

Sherlock crowds the hapless doctor in the kitchen, who is busy stirring a chicken and spinach risotto. Despite the older man's protests, the detective persists in alternately kissing John's neck and ears, whispering about all the filthy things he wants them to do. The consulting smart arse notes that it takes John approximately forty two seconds less time to come in his pants than Sherlock did.

John makes the taller man take over the risotto and just about has time to change his pants and trousers before Greg and Molly arrive, bearing wine, a few minutes late. Sherlock notes Greg's tie is slightly crooked, Molly's french plait is coming slightly loose and she's lost an earring. He shares a glance with John and keeps his deductions to himself.

* * *

><p>69.<p>

The dinner is a great success despite Sherlock's continual eye rolling at Greg and Molly, who, let's be honest, are being cloyingly sweet. Greg is like an over friendly puppy and Molly is a purring kitten as they commandeer the sofa after dinner, curling up together despite Sherlock's mutterings.

John persuades him to get out his violin, which Sherlock does and he proceeds to play a solo version of Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre. It's John's turn for the eye rolling, at Sherlock's passive aggressive violin playing. It doesn't last as John does manage to persuade him to play something more romantic, starting with some Bach, before playing a piece John's never heard him play before but knows, seeing the handwritten sheet music, that it's one of the detective's own compositions.

His appreciative audience clap at the end and when Molly asks what's it called, he looks at John.

"Conductor of Light," he says softly. John bustles away, gathering empty wine glasses, not wanting the others to see the tears that well in his eyes. He must have drunk too much wine, he tells himself.

* * *

><p>70.<p>

Much to the relief of both residents of Flat 221B, the two love birds leave shortly afterwards, presumably to Molly's flat, where they can finish what they started in the taxi on the way over to Baker Street.

John cleans up the kitchen, while Sherlock finds the doctor's ipod and dock, setting it up in the living room. When John returns, he sees the coffee table has been moved leaving a space and there is music, Burt Bacharach of all people, playing. He smiles as Sherlock moves to take John into his arms and the two of them dance, slowly and gently, more like swaying than dancing.

Time seems to stand still and they are back in that space where all the world falls away, leaving just the two of them. The song changes to "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" and when the song ends, Sherlock whispers softly into John's ear.

"It's true, I'll never fall in love again. Because that implies that I could fall out of love with you. And that, my dear John, is utterly inconceivable."

**A/N ****I found on youtube an awesome solo of Danse Macabre! I wasn't sure it could be done, but yes it can!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N Smutty smut! **

71.

The music stops and John wraps a tender hand about the back of Sherlock's neck, bringing him down into a kiss. It's soft and gentle but there is also a slow burn of passion as Sherlock's hands move from John's waist to his arse and the doctor's hand tangles in those thick, dark curls.

When their lips finally part, John smirks up at Sherlock.

"Bedroom?"

Sherlock frowns, looking disappointed.

"I'm not tired," he says, a little sulkily.

"Neither am I," says John with a chuckle. "I wasn't planning on sleeping yet."

The look of astonishment on Sherlock's face is utterly priceless. John continues.

"Let's get started on that bucket list you were telling me about in the kitchen earlier, shall we?"

* * *

><p>72.<p>

What Sherlock lacks in experience, he surely makes up for in his ability to store information for later retrieval and the skilful practical application of such theoretical knowledge. Instinctively he knows that most of his sexual history will be irrelevant to how he will proceed with John. After all, what he has learned so far is that being touched by someone who loves you is a completely different experience to his body simply being used as a vessel into which a stranger can expend their lust.

John expresses his love, his care and appreciation for Sherlock with his hands, his mouth and, Sherlock hopes, soon with his cock. So when they stumble into the bedroom, he feels a sense of anticipation and a crawling sensation in his gut, for sometimes, not often, the great Sherlock Holmes is plagued with doubts and this, to him is a large one. He fears he will disappoint his John, that he will fail to please him, that John will wake up and run screaming away from him in search of the nearest blonde and busty female.

John realises that Sherlock has frozen to the spot and looks into those iridescent green eyes he loves. He can see the doubt on his beloved detective's face and knows the source of that doubt.

"I love you, Sherlock, I want you. No one else will ever do for me."

* * *

><p>73.<p>

So what was on that bucket list? Quite a lot actually. Much more than they can get through this night, especially as passion blooms brightly and hotly between them.

They strip out of their clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor before crawling into bed.

Sherlock immediately starts babbling nervously about what they should be doing and whether John would prefer to be the dominant partner, after all that is what he is used to and Sherlock certainly has been penetrated before, although he would like to try too and-

John silences him with a deep and searching kiss.

"This isn't about who's on top, you know," he says softly, after he ends it. "There's give and take here, plenty of room for reciprocation on both sides. And it doesn't have to be about penetration. Actually, I think it might be better to leave that for another time. I'm not sure either of us have the patience right now."

He's right, both their cocks are hard and heavy, pressing against naked flesh, Sherlock is already moving his hips in minute thrusts. John shifts up so their cocks are aligned and wraps his hands around both of them.

* * *

><p>74.<p>

_Oh God, oh God, ohgodohgodohgod FUCK!_

This is so much better than when he does it himself, thinks Sherlock as he wraps his large hands around John's smaller ones. Then again, masturbation to him was perfunctory, his transport making irritating demands on him, something to be dealt with as quickly as possible so that he can get to more important things.

Their hands still as their hips flex to thrust their cocks through them, the sensation of the slight roughness of John's hands warring with the hot velvet of John's cock. He tilts his head down to meet John's mouth, fucking it with his tongue.

The bedsprings creak with their thrusts and the air is punctuated with soft moans, whines and the odd _FUCK!_ as they rut helplessly against each other.

"God, I'm close," moans John. "Sherlock…"

The younger man can feel his balls drawing up, heralding his impending release and he flings a leg over John's hip in a desperate need to merge himself with the other man.

With a sharp cry, his brain goes offline as waves of pleasure rush through him like a tsunami and he can hear John chanting his name as his own orgasm hits him.

* * *

><p>75.<p>

They release their now over-sensitive flesh, their hands sticky, but that isn't the only wetness on their skin, as John looks up to see the fresh tear tracks on his lover's face. He wipes a hand on the sheet then brushes Sherlock's face, looking slightly awestruck.

Sherlock blinks, unaware that he'd cried until John touched his face. John's deep blue eyes meet his slightly red rimmed ones and he pulls away, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of data that is now rattling around his mind. He rolls onto his back, closing his eyes and starts to sort through it.

"Sherlock… are you alright?" John's voice is all concern now. Sherlock nods but doesn't speak as he enters his mind palace and heads for John's wing. He needs to identify and catalogue everything that's happened tonight, store it away for future reference. He has a whole room for the physical data he has acquired, a duplicate of their bedroom, only there is bright, hot sunlight stream through the tall window and laying on the bed is John, looking utterly debauched, his skin glowing golden.

His Mind Palace John smiles, drawing him to the bed. _It's all here and you won't ever be able to delete it._

* * *

><p>76.<p>

John eases himself off the bed to clean himself up in the bathroom. He brings a wet flannel through and gently wipes Sherlock's sticky skin. The detective opens his eyes and smiles at John.

"I'm fine, John," he says. "It was good, _very_ good. Thank you."

John chuckles and kisses Sherlock on the lips.

"No, thank _you_! You were bloody fantastic, you know that? But then, I'd expect nothing less from you." He lays back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, grinning like mad. "As if you need another reason for me to tell you how amazing and brilliant you are."

"You should know by now that I feast on your praise, John," replies Sherlock. "And that I am an unappreciative, selfish, obnoxious arsehole that only a saint such as yourself will put up with."

The two of them started laughing again, still a little giddy from the bliss that comes from a really good orgasm.

"So, John," says Sherlock in a reflective tone. "Shall we do that again?"

"Oh God, yes!"

* * *

><p>77.<p>

John sometimes feels with that first mutual orgasm, he has unleashed a monster. Sherlock, at least in between cases, appears to be somewhat… insatiable. A couple of times John has had to firmly say to him no, he isn't up for another go or he's had a long day and would just like to veg on the sofa then go to sleep.

It causes a little confusion on Sherlock's part, for all his confident and arrogant exterior, there still exists in him an insecure little boy who's easily hurt, if he perceives rejection. But John, with his wisdom and his expertise on the care of consulting detectives, knows how to soothe him, most of the time. At other times, John can be an impatient grump.

So things aren't perfect as misunderstandings happens, Sherlock sulks in their bedroom or on the sofa, refusing to speak to his partner for hours and sometimes John needs to go out 'for some air' which normally culminates in pints with Greg and a mutual bitching session about their respective partners. Don't misunderstand, Greg _adores_ Molly, but he sometimes gets annoyed with the cat hair on his trousers, how she is always misplacing his keys and wallet or her insistence on watching hospital dramas with a running commentary on why they are never medically accurate.

But really, everything's fine when one looks at the big picture, for both couples are stupidly, irrevocably, in love.

* * *

><p>78.<p>

Despite Sherlock's enthusiasm for sex, he is still quite shy at times when it comes to revealing his body. John quickly realises he is self conscious of his scars, particularly the needle marks.

John tells him that he trusts Sherlock, that despite that unfortunate relapse he'd had after John's wedding, he would not touch drugs again. He hasn't even had a cigarette since the previous Christmas, though he still uses the occasional nicotine patch, at times of extreme stress.

His other scars cause John more grief. The one from when John's ex wife nearly killed the detective and ones gained during his time away. John knows that those scars were acquired because of his love for John. A love that sometimes the doctor isn't sure he deserves.

When he has that sad, pensive look on his face as his fingers gently trace those scars, Sherlock tells him with absolute sincerity.

"I would gain all those scars again, for you. You are worth every single one."

* * *

><p>79.<p>

Anal sex is discussed but not attempted, both of them confess to having rather unpleasant experiences in that regard. John had only tried it once, when he and Sholto fallen into bed together on one depressing evening. They'd lost a young private, on his first tour of duty, to a roadside bomb, which also severely injured two others. It wasn't that bad, but the next morning, Sholto had regretted his actions, causing John a great deal of hurt.

Sherlock casually mentions that he'd tried anal sex a couple of times at university, only on the receiving end. He confesses he was glad he could satisfy his dealers with a blow job, as those experiences had been humiliating and painful. John's hands tremble at this revelation, wishing he could hunt down the people who hurt his love and hurt them in return.

They aren't ruling it out, though. Sherlock points out that up until recently he thought pretty much all sexual practices were a tedious and messy waste of time. John, with a simple kiss, has changed that point of view.

* * *

><p>80.<p>

They are slowly working their way through Sherlock's bucket list. Mutual masturbation is a common theme and occasionally they like to watch each other, both of them taking mental notes on what the other likes. Then there's intercrural sex and oral sex, the latter at which, John is pleased to discover, Sherlock is bloody amazing. The detective is quick to reassure the doctor that he absolutely adores John's mouth on his cock.

There's fast, adrenaline fuelled rutting born out of post case euphoria and slow, lazy love making, where they bring each other, using hands and mouths, to the brink of release and pull back, again and again. Sherlock has every square inch of John's skin memorised, from the callouses on his feet to the small bumps on his skull. And in the bedroom in his mind palace, the golden toned body of his John is covered in notes and diagrams of what exactly gets John going best. All annotated, of course.

The sex adds another dimension to their relationship, but it is not and never will be the be all and end all. They are still Holmes and Watson, consulting detectives, the two of them against the world.


	9. Chapter 9

81.

Eventually, news of their relationship enters the public domain. Although outside of the flat they tend to be very discreet, they have been photographed in Regent's Park. On an unseasonably mild November Sunday, both of them at a loose end, John had encouraged Sherlock to go for a walk.

A few trees still had their vermilion and amber autumnal foliage, though most trees had lost their leaves. But it was still a pleasant walk, watching old couples, families and the occasional runner go past. Sherlock then directed John down a secluded path. They kissed, slowly and tenderly under the bare branches of a weeping willow, so absorbed in each other, they'd failed to spot the opportunist with her smartphone.

Mycroft calls around the next day with a copy of the paper, opening it to page seven. John, his lips drawn into a thin line, reads the article without comment, though fury ignites his dark blue eyes, especially at the suggestion he'd been unfaithful during his brief marriage. Sherlock looks at the article and shrugs.

"I would've thought we'd have made at least page three," he remarks, in an artfully careless way. Pride won't allow him to admit to his brother how much it bothers him, having his personal life in print for the masses.

Mycroft acquires all copies of the photos taken and sends them to Sherlock.

* * *

><p>82.<p>

They still end up with nosey reporters desperate for more gossip about John and Sherlock, much to their mutual irritation. There have always been rumours in the press about the nature of their relationship, rumours that even his marriage and Janine's kiss-and-tell didn't dampened.

John is irritated as he considers his private life to be exactly that; private. Sherlock is irritated as the stories detract from The Work and the demonstration of his ruthlessly logical mind. Despite his adoration for John Watson, he is loathed to let anyone think he's ruled by sentiment.

Even worse is when Mummy starts calling and asks that he visits home with his "lovely doctor, I always thought there was something off about that wife of his, Mycroft told me all about it, don't worry, you know I signed the Official Secrets Act years ago, Sher-"

It's a good job that Mrs Holmes is accustomed to her youngest son hanging up the phone on her.

83.

They try to keep their heads down as much as possible but it is not easy, especially when there is a high profile case on their hands. The case surprises John at first, he didn't think Sherlock would take it. It involves a Red Setter bitch called Dawn Miracle, who'd recently won the Cruft's Best in Show. The hapless hound had been dognapped from its owner's townhouse, with the supposition of it being an inside job.

They solve the case and find the dog, stolen by the owner's husband, who had been having an affair with the owner's gardener. The husband had feared his wife would gain custody of the dog when he filed for divorce so decided he would make a pre-emptive strike.

The Setter's owner promptly files for divorce herself, her only regret is that she has to sack the gardener, who had done wonders with her roses. One thing is certain is that she is _not_ getting a reference.

As well as a generous cheque, the owner also promised Sherlock a choice of puppy from her dog's next litter. John is very surprised that Sherlock accepts.

* * *

><p>84.<p>

The future puppy turns out to be a not-so-small bone of contention with John.

"We don't have room for a dog, Sherlock," he complains. "Don't get me wrong, I like dogs, Harry and I had dogs when we were growing up! But they are a lot of work, need to be walked every day, especially an active dog such as a setter!"

Sherlock sits in his chair and draws his knees up, resting his cheek on them. John knows there is something more to it than a chance whim. Balancing himself on the arm of the chair, he strokes Sherlock's curly locks.

"What is it, love?" he asks, his voice gentle and patient. And so that is when John finds out about Redbeard.

John does manage to convince the detective of the impractically of such a dog in a small flat. And he promises when they do retire, there will definitely be a dog. And bees.

* * *

><p>85.<p>

The two of them are having one of their rare lazy mornings in bed, Sherlock on his laptop and John reading a new Tom Clancy thriller, when the doctor puts the book down and looks at his partner.

"What's the plan for Christmas? Harry is going to Tenerife with her new girlfriend. I was thinking we could invite a few people over."

"Perhaps we should go away too, John," suggests Sherlock. "I was thinking Rome?"

John frowns. Sherlock would never suggest going anywhere unless it was for a case. Although given the email he received a few days ago, he is certain he knows what is motivating the detective's desire to escape the country.

"Really? It would be a shame for your parents to come all this way for us to not be here!"

Sherlock sighs heavily.

"Mummy emailed you, didn't she? Fine. We'll stay. Invite who you want. But Christmas day is for us alone. Unless-"

"There's a case, " John finishes for him, with a chuckle. "I know the drill!"

* * *

><p>86.<p>

"Oh!" says John, as he opens his mail. He frowns as he reads the letter, Sherlock can see it's a solicitor's letter, likely probate.

It turns out John's Aunt Janice has died. John was rather fond of her growing up, she had been a delightfully eccentric spinster, sharp as a tack and indulgent of her niece and nephew. It was she who had taken Harry in when she told her parents that she was gay. Janice had been scathing of her brother and sister-in-law's negative reaction to their daughter's coming out.

Sherlock accompanies John to the funeral, which is only attended by a handful of people, plus Harry and her new girlfriend, Vicki. A few days later they see their deceased aunt's solicitor who informs them that their Aunt has left them some money, about £5000 each. John is touched and a little guilty that he hadn't kept in better touch with his aunt, who never failed to send him Christmas and birthday cards every year.

When he pays the money into his savings account, he thinks of Sherlock's suggestion they go to Rome. They won't go for Christmas, but they will definitely go in the new year.

* * *

><p>87.<p>

They are approaching Christmas, their first officially as a couple. Considering how difficult the last few Christmases have been, John, in particular, is keen to make it a good one. They will be having a small party at the house; Mrs H, Greg and Molly, the Holmes parents and even Mycroft have been invited for drinks and nibbles.

John goes shopping to buy suitable gifts for Sherlock, new leather gloves as the detective's are getting rather tatty and a pale green cashmere scarf, the colour of Sherlock's eyes. There's one more gift; a Victorinox Swiss Army knife, on which is inscribed 'To SH love JW'. All practical gifts, yet chosen with thought and love.

Sherlock, after pestering Molly and Greg for ideas, settles on half a dozen stylish jumpers in lambswool and cashmere, determined that he will be liberating some of John's more execrable jumpers for his homeless network. He also buys John a new leather, lockable medical bag, with John's initials, Molly's suggestion and a set of Dan Brown books, which had been Greg's.

Sherlock is especially proud of himself for not peeking inside Mrs Hudson's larder, where he knows John has stashed his gifts.

* * *

><p>88.<p>

The party is a big success. There's mulled wine, made by John as well as a large Christmas cake provided by Mummy. Mycroft also comes bearing gifts and a cheese & chutney hamper from Harrods. Greg and Molly bring beer and festive cupcakes, hand made by the pathologist. Mrs Hudson brings up her famous Christmas turkey and pork pie which, rumour has it, is dense enough to sink aircraft carriers, but still tastes delicious.

There are carols sung, though it's mainly Greg, Molly, Mrs Holmes and Mrs Hudson singing while Sherlock plays the violin. Sherlock's father corners John in the kitchen and proceeds to talk the doctor's ear off about all of Sherlock's childhood escapades. Mycroft leaves after a couple of hours, citing 'urgent business'. He tells his parents he will send a car for them when they are ready to leave.

Greg, Molly and Mrs Hudson leave when the Holmes parents do, leaving Sherlock and John alone. They stay up past midnight, curled up on the sofa under a fleece blanket in their pyjamas, the living room lit only by the fire and the Christmas tree that John had insisted on. John kisses him fiercely, trying to banish the memories of how he nearly lost this man for good. Under the blanket, they touch each other, bringing each other to a gentle release and Sherlock whispers to John that he will never, ever be parted from him again.

* * *

><p>89.<p>

Sherlock appears to regress about thirty years the next morning, as he wakes John up at the unearthly time of five o'clock. He checks his mobile, disappointed that there are no texts from Lestrade informing him of any murders, then bounces on the bed, ignoring John telling him to "fuck off, so I can get back to sleep!" He then proceeds to burrow under the bed clothes to plant his mouth on John's cock.

One rather spectacular blow job later and all is forgiven, though John insists he'll be having a nap after lunch. The presents all go down well, Christmas lunch is made by Mrs Hudson and enjoyed in her cosy kitchen. Afterwards, John has his nap while Sherlock goes to St. Bart's to look at the corpse of someone who has a third kidney. He comes away, somewhat put out as Molly refused to let him take the kidney with him.

When he returns, John is busy on his laptop. He finishes what he's doing then asks Sherlock what he wants to do for the rest of the day. Sherlock holds up a file with a smile; Greg had left it there the previous night. So Sherlock and John spend the rest of Christmas Day looking into cold cases. They come up with several significant lines of enquiry for the Met to follow, before tumbling into bed for a good night's sleep.

* * *

><p>90.<p>

As for what John was doing on laptop earlier, he was writing a new blog entry.

**I've been meaning to do this for a while but somehow, I haven't managed to get around to it until today. I'm sure many of you have seen the picture of us in The Sun last month.**

**Anyway, I think it's safe to say that Sherlock and I are together in every sense. And no, I didn't cheat on my wife. I can't go into details, but all I can say is she wasn't the woman I thought she was.**

**I'm not saying anything else about this. It's between me and Sherlock and I hope that you all can respect that. I simply want my blog to focus on the most amazing mind I have ever known.**

**I've decided to turn comments back on. Just keep it clean, alright?**

**Merry Christmas!**


	10. Chapter 10

91.

John is pleased to see, when he checks back a couple of days later, that there are mostly positive comments on his blog. There are a few nasty comments, naturally anonymous, but John is heartened to see the likes of Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson and even Sally Donovan leaping to his defence. The negative comments get deleted, regardless. Today, John and Sherlock are attending a crime scene and Sally greets them in a cursory manner as she normally does. But when she thinks the two of them aren't looking, John notices she has a slight, approving smile on his face.

Afterwards, while Sherlock talks animatedly at Lestrade, Sally stands next to the doctor.

"You're good for him," she says, quietly. "He's less of an arsehole with you around."

"Thanks," replies John with a slight grin. "Hear from Anderson?"

Sally gives him a sharp look.

"No, actually," she smirks. "My new man wouldn't like it. And before you ask, no, he isn't married."

John holds up his hands in a deprecating manner.

"Wasn't even thinking it, Sally."

* * *

><p>92.<p>

They are currently on a case, trying to find out who'd killed one of Sherlock's homeless network. The detective is convinced the killing isn't random; the dead woman was one of the people who helped Sherlock fake his death.

Two more other bodies turn up, all from the homeless network and John can see how much these deaths affect the detective, like no other deaths.

"You feel responsible for them, don't you?" asks John, as they leave the scene of the third death, frustrated as to the lack of clues. Sherlock nods.

"They put themselves at risk to help me," he says quietly. "I owe them to find out who is carrying out these killings, before they kill again."

"You will, you know. We'll find them."

"You always have such faith in me, John. I'm not sure I entirely deserve it."

"You came back from the dead because I asked you to. Believe me, you do."

* * *

><p>93.<p>

Thankfully they find the murderer, just in time to prevent a fourth killing, the potential victim a seventeen year old woman. The murderer was someone posing as a homeless person but had connections to Moran and Moriarty. He was angry at being deprived of his way of living when Sherlock took apart Moriarty's network. Too cowardly to target the detective or his closest friends, he went after the most vulnerable people in Sherlock's acquaintance, his homeless network. Now he would be behind bars, charged with the murder of three people and the attempted murder of a fourth.

"Sherlock," asks John, bringing in tea for the both of them. "Are you okay?" The detective shows none of the usual satisfaction of having solved a case. Instead, he is eaten up with guilt over the deaths he couldn't prevent.

"I'm fine, John," he says flatly. He gets up and puts his coat and scarf back on. "I have to go out now." Before John can protest, he is out the door.

* * *

><p>94.<p>

John is frantic. He has called Greg, Molly, Mycroft. None of them have seen Sherlock since he walked out of the flat three days ago and John fears the worst. Mycroft has been scouring the CCTV network for him, John has been pounding the streets through Sherlock's usual haunts and Greg has coppers on the beat keeping a weather eye out for the detective. It seems he visited various members of the network the day he disappeared, but no one has seen him since.

Mycroft calls around, looking weary.

"John, if my brother does not want to be found, even I cannot find him," he admits. At this point, foul play is no longer being ruled out, though there was a rather large cash withdrawal made from his personal account the day he went missing. So the assumption is that Sherlock does not want to be found. John is less convinced.

But when Mycroft sends a car around for him, which brings him to Thames House, he knows something is badly wrong and that his partner is in danger. As Mycroft outlines a risky plan to rescue Sherlock, John knows he will do anything to get Sherlock back, safe and unharmed.

* * *

><p>95.<p>

They find him, thank goodness. Sherlock has been liberated, little bruised but mainly okay. It seems that Sherlock, checking on his homeless network, had foiled the kidnapping of a homeless teen, but was taken himself. Both Sherlock and his brother have quite a few enemies and the kidnapper had decided to sell Sherlock to the highest bidder.

Fortunately the negotiations meant Sherlock was kept relatively unharmed. Even more fortunate was that one of the kidnapper's minions was an undercover MI-5 agent, who'd infiltrated the gang, a child trafficking ring that had links to Ukrainian terrorists. Mycroft's plan involved liberating his brother, without blowing the agent's cover, which was why John was involved.

John takes Sherlock home, promising to bring him down to the Yard the next morning to make his statement. All that he wants now is to get Sherlock clean, fed and watered, then tucked into bed.

"I'm sorry, John," whispers Sherlock. "I should've told you where I was going." John says nothing as he gets into the bed, enfolds the taller man into his arms and kisses the top of his head. He's just glad to have Sherlock back again.

* * *

><p>96.<p>

The next day, John is busy on his laptop, sat up in bed, when Sherlock awakes. He pulls himself up next to him, curious as to what John's doing.

"Morning, love," says John, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Is Rome okay for you, or would you rather go somewhere else?"

"Rome would be fine, John," replies Sherlock after a few seconds' thought. "Somewhere near the Colosseum. And it must have wifi," He looked at the laptop as John typed in the search bar.

"Hotel Romance? Their interior designer should be shot for crimes against soft furnishings!" The hotel that Sherlock was criticising had a rather over the top Baroque theming.

"How about this one? It has views of the Forum and the Colosseum," says John. He's pointing to the Relais Terme Di Tito.

"When do we leave?" asks Sherlock.

"I thought we'd go for a long weekend after the New Year. We can celebrate your birthday while we're there." Sherlock snorts but then smiles at John. They are both in agreement that a break would do them good.

* * *

><p>97.<p>

Before they go there is the New Year's Eve party to attend at New Scotland Yard. Sherlock pretends indifference but John knows the detective is looking forward to the party, though he swears he will not be drinking. They both go, making a beeline for Greg and Molly when they get there.

"Hello, John, Sherlock," says Molly, her arm linked through Greg's. "Did you like your Christmas presents from us?"

John gives Molly a wide smile. He decides not to mention that he and Sherlock are wearing them.

"Err, yes thanks," replies John. "And I hope you like ours?"

"Yeah, thanks John. I guess you chose them, right?" says Greg with a grin. John had picked up a set of posh bath smellies and some truffles for Molly, for Greg he'd bought a selection of real ale.

"Though I wonder what it says about you, Molly Hooper, that you are buying underwear for other men," remarks Sherlock. Greg winked at him.

"Who says she bought them?"

* * *

><p>98.<p>

When the New Year has been chimed in and the party dies down, John and Sherlock head back to Baker Street.

"Been a hell of a year, hasn't it?" contemplates John.

"Indeed," says Sherlock. "We've stopped two counterfeiting rings, reunited one lost dog with its owner, found five serial killers, eight adulterers, one child pornography ring, solved nine accidental killings and prevented the loss of priceless art at the British Museum."

"Well, yeah," says John. "But I was thinking more on the lines of us."

Sherlock takes John's hand.

"I would not describe that as 'hell' John," he says. "I would describe us as that which is necessary and perfect and good."

John chuckled and squeezed Sherlock's hand. They stayed that wait until they arrived home.

* * *

><p>99.<p>

The two of them are lounging on the bed, naked apart from their silk boxers, the ones from Greg and Molly. John's are scarlet and Sherlock's are royal purple.

John lays his hand on Sherlock's cock, over the silk and strokes, making the detective squirm.

"I think we should leave these on, don't you?"

"You can wash them, then," gasps Sherlock, as he thrusts upwards. Soon they are a happy, sweaty tangle of limbs, frotting against each other, relishing the feel of the silk and the welcome heat from their cocks. They soon bring themselves to a very satisfactory climax.

As they lay together, drowsy in their post-coital bliss, Sherlock murmurs softly to John.

"I look forward to many more New Years like that with you."

* * *

><p>100.<p>

John books the hotel, they are going for three nights. Sherlock offers to pay for half, but the doctor insists on paying for their mini break with the money from Aunt Janice, though he does agree to let Sherlock pay for the upgrade on the flights to first class as the posh git point blank refuses to fly economy.

In the meantime, John searches for the perfect gift for Sherlock's birthday. He draws the line at arranging a locked room murder for the detective. He needs to think carefully but he hasn't a lot of time to do it. But it's important; this is the first time he's had an opportunity to even celebrate Sherlock's birthday. He didn't even know the date until he'd seen the faked death certificate.

He actually finds a couple of things, one cheesy, one sentimental. He hopes Sherlock will take them in the spirit they are intended.

**A/N Me and my DH are hoping to go back to Rome and I've already told him I want to stay at the guest house I'm sending Sherlock & John too :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N ****Tonio is purely a product of my imagination. And if you go to Rome, on the Piazza de Napoli, there is a restaurant that does the best quattro fomaggi pizza in the world.**

* * *

><p>101.<p>

They nearly miss their flight; fortunately at least John had the presence of mind to pack a couple of days before they are due to fly out, as Lestrade brings a case to him that has the Met baffled. It was a particularly interesting case, of recently reunited identical twins, unfortunately one of them had a gambling problem and murdered the other so he could escape to a new life. Sherlock managed to track down the man before he could board a flight to Paris.

At least the case has brought them to the right airport. Mrs Hudson brings their bags to the airport, Lestrade manages to commandeer an office to take their statements, so they manage to make their flight with minutes to spare.

John supposes First Class is worth the money, but he can't really tell as he spends most of the flight asleep, head on Sherlock's shoulder, their hands entwined. He also misses the flight attendants, who to Sherlock's annoyance, coo over them and call them 'cute'. Sherlock is not cute; although he will admit that John most definitely is. Only under torture though.

* * *

><p>102.<p>

After a frankly terrifying taxi drive in which John takes back every mean word he's ever said about London cabbies, they arrive at the guesthouse. More or less; they walk past it twice before they finally find the entrance.

They are greeted by the owner, an aged Italian named Tonio who makes John feel tall, telling them how thrilled he is to have the great Sherlock Holmes staying and how much he loves Dr. Watson's blog. John is very flattered as he had no idea that his blog was read by people outside of London, let alone in Europe.

They are shown to their room, a bright, airy one with a claw foot tub and views of the Colosseum. Sherlock is itching to get out and explore while it's still light and John agrees, loves to see him bouncing with excitement. Even if he does get excited over the strangest things.

* * *

><p>103.<p>

Wrapped warm against the chilly air and with directions to a good restaurant, they have a pleasant afternoon and evening roaming around the ruins, Sherlock and John both trying to translate the latin inscriptions, though Sherlock's public school boy Latin is far more expansive than John's medical school Latin.

They find the restaurant as excellent as Tonio had promised and enjoy fresh Italian bread with various antipasti, followed by veal picatto with angel hair pasta, then limoncello dessert. They take a leisurely walk back through the twisting streets before heading back to the guest house, both of them pleasantly mellow due to the application of good Italian wine.

In their room, John unpacks, while Sherlock fiddles about with his 'phone. He's reading the website of La Repubblica, one of Rome's most popular newspapers, in Italian. John has already been impressed by Sherlock's fluency with the language.

Sherlock speaks French fluently as well and also admits to having a working knowledge of several other European languages. He pointedly ends the discussion as it brings back unwanted memories of his time away. John looks at him in understanding. Perhaps one day Sherlock will open up to him about it, but now was not the time.

* * *

><p>104.<p>

"I think I'll have a bath," announces Sherlock, putting his mobile on to charge. John is sprawled on the bed in his boxers and a t-shirt, reading his Tom Clancy book. However he is distracted by the sight of his partner, undressing as the bath filled.

John realises that up until now, he hasn't properly appreciated what a breathtakingly beautiful man Sherlock was; all alabaster skin, lean, well shaped muscles and that gorgeous arse. He could've modelled for the statues that the Romans used to demonstrate the pinnacle of masculine beauty, though, he thought, much better endowed than Michaelangelo's David. Perhaps he is so accustomed to admiring feminine beauty, lush curves and that warm, secret place between their thighs that it has taken him a while to learn how to properly appreciate the aesthetic of his lover.

Sherlock steps into the bath, unmindful of John's cock stirring as he got a glimpse of another warm, secret place nestled in the cleft of that arse. Putting his book down he wanders over as Sherlock settles himself comfortably into begamot and geranium scented bubbles.

"Decadent prat," John says fondly, placing a kiss on the younger man's forehead. "I'm going in the shower."

* * *

><p>105.<p>

John gets out of the shower and towels himself off briskly, while watching Sherlock, whose eyes are shut and hands steepled under his chin.

"Don't stay in too long, you'll go all pruney," he teases, before lying on the bed, on his stomach, to read his book. Sherlock opens his eyes to see a rather nice view of John's own rather fantastic derrière.

"John," he says, in that rumbling baritone that the doctor loves. "You have an arse that rivals that of the most comely Roman generals'."

John grins, amused by the compliment that reflects his own thoughts on Sherlock's posterior. Soon Sherlock heeds his earlier warning and gets out, scooping up the towel John had thoughtfully left for him. As the bath water gurgles away, he dries himself off before joining his lover on the sumptuous king-sized bed. They both smile as they simultaneously reach for each other's backside.

* * *

><p>106.<p>

"You've definitely got the most lush arse, Sherlock," says John as he gently caresses said part of the taller man's anatomy. "I swear every ounce of your body fat is situated here!" He lightly patted and massaged it, eliciting a moan from its owner.

Experimentally, he runs a finger down the cleft, smiling as he feels Sherlock shiver.

"Been thinking," says John. "I like what we do, don't get me wrong…"

"But you were thinking about fucking my arse, earlier, weren't you?"

"Well yeah, but you were also thinking the same of mine!"

"True, John. With you, it is something I am willing to explore."

John smiles in agreement. But in between soft touches and caresses he reassures Sherlock it doesn't have to happen tonight or tomorrow night. Both of them have had unpleasant experiences in the past and after they use their hands to bring each other off, John gently suggests they discuss it more when they get home and Sherlock readily agrees.

* * *

><p>107.<p>

The next day is Sherlock's birthday and John gives him his presents, the first a mug on which is emblazoned "The World's Only Consulting Detective" around the outside, inside the mug it says "I Invented the Job". John comments that he hopes this will end Sherlock stealing his RAMC mug as he's sick of cleaning mould out of it. The second present gives Sherlock pause. He holds the contents of the envelope in his hands, which are trembling slightly. John looks at him anxiously.

"I thought… you know… since I said we couldn't have a dog now, well," he gestures at the certificate of sponsorship and photo of a red setter at a rescue centre, that takes care of older dogs that can't be rehomed. John has set up a monthly direct debit to pay for care of the dog, whose name is Rufus, for the rest of his natural life. Although he is now wondering if it was such a good idea.

"I know… it's not the same as having our own dog but I thought…"

"Thank you, John," says Sherlock. His pale green eyes meet John's deep blue ones and there is more emotion that John could ever attempt to identify. "This is a truly wonderful, thoughtful gift."

* * *

><p>108.<p>

They fly back home a couple of days later and John swears they have both put on weight from the sheer amount of pasta and pizza they ate, though hopefully the amount of walking they did exploring the centre of Rome justified it somewhat. They are both relaxed and happy, looking forward to whatever it was that would await them when they returned home.

Back at Baker Street, they unpack, John sorts the laundry which quickly gets abandoned as Lestrade calls around with a case file. It's a robbery from a high profile celebrity, except nothing appears to have been stolen. His housekeeper says that nothing has gone missing, yet the celebrity, an actor from a popular soap opera, insists that something has but refuses to say what.

Sherlock and John explore the house thoroughly looking for clues as to what the item was and who stole it. They soon work out what it was, a custom made, anatomically accurate, waterproof dildo. Once Sherlock had figured that out, the rest was easy. The actor gives them a generous cheque, grateful for their discretion.

* * *

><p>109.<p>

Back at Baker Street, John is straight onto his laptop. Sherlock makes tea and brings it over, peering over John's shoulder. The doctor is looking at a website that sells sex toys.

"I was curious," confesses John with a grin. "He had a rather interesting collection in that secret drawer you found."

"Indeed," remarks Sherlock. "And the boyfriend only made off with one of them. Perhaps he didn't care for the rest of them?"

"I suspect he only cared for the diamonds that his lover concealed in that dildo," replies John. "I must admit, it was a clever place to hide them… just not clever enough!"

Sherlock frowned and pointed at something on the screen.

"What's that?"

"That? It's…" John clicks on the image. "An anal training kit."

Sherlock whips his card out and gives it to John.

"Order it."

"Hang on a minute, I said, we'd discuss it!"

"It says it takes two days to arrive, ample time, don't you think?"

"Oh God, yes!"

* * *

><p>110.<p>

The kit arrives two days later, signed for by a rather amused Mrs Hudson. John snatches the package out of her hand, face flaming with embarrassment.

"Oh, John," she gushes. "No need to be embarrassed, I used to order things from there quite regularly. I can recommend the-"

"That's quite alright, Mrs Hudson," squeaks John. "Best go up!" He practically runs up the stairs, wishing he could delete things from his brain the way his partner could.

He finds Sherlock up in his lab, running an experiment. John unpacks the box and removes the three trainers.

"We'll need to sterilise them, before we use them," says John.

"Put them on top of the autoclave for now. In the meantime, I need your assistance here. A man's alibi might depend on this test."

Naturally, where there is a case, all other considerations are forgotten until its solved. So any thoughts of using their new toys will have to wait until the case is complete and they are not hungry and sleep deprived.


	12. Chapter 12

111.

The next few weeks see them both quite busy. Sherlock has a few cases, which although not particularly taxing, help keep him occupied while John works overtime at the surgery. One of the other doctors is off sick with the flu and so John is working more than his usual two days a week maternity cover.

He's also been told the GP who he is covering for isn't intending to return as she and her husband are relocating up north. So the option is for him to take the position permanently. He puts his application in but resolves to talk to Sherlock about it. After all, decisions like this, which could potentially impact on them both, should be discussed by both of them.

It's just unfortunate that Sherlock doesn't always see it that way, as demonstrated when he offered to look after Molly's cat for a week while she and Greg went on a last minute getaway to the Canaries. Not that John minds, it's just he knows it will be him that will have to take care of the cat…

* * *

><p>112.<p>

Naturally, he is proven right. It is John who goes around every day to feed the cat and clean out his litter tray. Toby is a friendly feline so John doesn't mind that much and it isn't that much of a diversion on the days he is working.

He does enjoy the large bottle of_ Sangría_ that Greg and Molly bring back. He and Sherlock drink it one evening as the detective tries to teach the doctor the flamenco, but they are interrupted by Mrs Hudson who needs Sherlock to reset one of her circuit breakers, as only he is tall enough to reach the box.

When he does that, Mrs Hudson asks for a dance so Sherlock obliges and the two of them do a very spritely cha cha cha. John takes pictures of them and promises not to put them on his blog. He puts them onto Sherlock's instead. Well, it isn't as if anyone reads it.

Sherlock takes them down anyway and sulks for three days.

* * *

><p>113.<p>

John comes home one night to see a rather surprising sight. The detective is dancing again, not with Mrs Hudson, but with a rather lovely redhead, who is perhaps a couple of years younger than the detective. John stands in the doorway watching them, with an uncomfortable feeling of jealousy, as they twirl with complicated steps around the living room, looking very well matched. They only stop when Sherlock spots the doctor.

"A case John! With dancing! Ballroom dancing!" Sherlock is practically glowing with delight. "This is Mrs Ashford, she runs a ballroom dancing school in Stratford."

Sherlock explains the case, Mrs Tonya Ashford, who is a retired professional dancer, runs a school that has turned out more than a few couples who have done well in amateur competitions. However, a spate of mysterious injuries has put most of her talent out of commission. She suspects a rival school, in Croydon, is behind it. Sherlock will pose as her new partner while he investigates, much to his delight. John, on the other hand, is pleased when they are introduced to Mr Ashford, who is doted on by his wife, despite his two left feet.

* * *

><p>114.<p>

Sherlock rates the case a nine, for sheer entertainment value as it wasn't particularly difficult to solve. Really, it should've taken just a couple of days but he manages to eke it out to a week, while at the same time, safeguarding the remaining dancers from injury.

He spends a lot of the time dancing, with both men and ladies, John watching from the sidelines, as he refuses point blank to join in. He loves watching Sherlock who, although not as polished as the school's dancers, shows definite flair and grace. When the case has been wrapped up, he regretfully declines the membership that Mr and Mrs Ashford offer him.

John is also very entertained when he gets an email inviting him to be a contestant on BBC's Strictly Come Dancing. That also gets declined as well by the media shy detective. John's secretly disappointed but has no intention of mentioning his crush on Claudia Winkleman. Which is fine, as he isn't aware of Sherlock's own crush on Artem Chigvintsev.

* * *

><p>115.<p>

A few smaller cases are wrapped up and it seems there is a little bit of a lull, which means they are able to have a quiet evening together, curled up on the sofa in their pyjamas, drinking wine and watching reruns of Star Trek. As usual, Sherlock is providing the usual derogatory commentary but John is tolerant as Sherlock shifts to lay his head on John's lap so as to allow the older man to pet him like the great overgrown cat John often likens him too.

Evenings like this are good as they allow them some respite from the usual hectic pace of their life together. Eventually Sherlock tires of being petted and leans up to pull the older man into a deep kiss, letting him know he is ready for other activities. They mutually decide to relocate to the bedroom, strip off and slip under the covers.

"We never did have that discussion," says John, in between lazy kisses.

"Mmmm," mutters Sherlock who is currently massaging John's arse. "I put the trainers in the autoclave, however I have some reservations about them. Perhaps you could fetch them?"

John sighs and reluctantly leaves the bed, throwing on his dressing gown. He glances back at his partner, looking indolent, then rushes upstairs, not willing to leave him too long. Once again, he gets that thrill that no one in the world will ever see Sherlock looking like that.

* * *

><p>116.<p>

"Hmm," says John, as he lines all three anal trainers up. "This one seems a bit pointless!" He is holding up the smallest one, which is only as wide as his index finger. He picks up the middle one and shows it to Sherlock.

"Perhaps we can start with that one?" the younger man suggests. "The large one is… somewhat reminiscent of Priapus." With a nervous look, they both disregard the largest one.

"So who's going first?" asks John. "I mean, I'm willing but if you prefer to, I dunno… we could toss for it?"

"Whoever comes first, goes first?"

"No, you pillock," laughs John. "I meant a coin! Heads, it's me, tails, it's you."

By the time they find a coin, argue over the result and then agree to two out of three, the flames of passion die down somewhat. John sighs.

"Why don't we just do what comes naturally?" he asks. "It's getting a bit clinical for my taste."

Sherlock answers by pressing him down onto the mattress, before giving him an all consuming kiss.

* * *

><p>117.<p>

The trainers are forgotten, though Sherlock ends up appropriating them for his lab. Instead, Sherlock takes control of the situation by flipping John on to his stomach and then with his mouth and tongue, systematically worship's John's fine arse, turning the doctor into putty. Cautiously, with his middle finger, he probes the crinkled flesh of John's anus.

"Just do it, Sherlock," says John, pushing up onto his knees, his cock hard and ready. "There's lube in the drawer." Sherlock hesitates but John throws him a reassuring smile over his shoulder. He is gentle and cautious, as he lubes his fingers and gently presses in through the resisting muscle. He pauses when he feels John tense, to gently stroke the older man's back. John encourages him to continue and slowly but surely he has him well stretched with three fingers deep inside his lover, who gives him instructions on how to find his prostate. He knows he's successful when John lets out an impassioned 'Oh FUCK!"

The layers of lust in those two words have Sherlock hard and eager to replace his fingers with his cock. Slathering on the lube, he eases his fingers out and when John nods, gently breaches John, even more slowly and carefully than with his fingers. He cannot, will not hurt this man; he wants only to bring him pleasure. His thighs are trembling from the effort to not pound hard into his partner, both ridiculously aroused and ridiculously scared that he will get this wrong, his first time inside another man.

* * *

><p>118.<p>

There are flashes of memory that make John's throat constrict as Sherlock is preparing him but he is reminded that Sholto had not been anywhere near as careful that one time they had given in to grief fueled lust. There is little discomfort, just an overwhelming need that he can't even articulate, a need to be filled, to be touched, to have his beloved be a part of him forever. He moans as Sherlock fills him with his cock and then wraps a free hand around him. Suddenly impatient, John thrusts against him, pulling the detective in deeper.

Both of them are so wound up from Sherlock's slow and careful preparation that the route to fulfilment is a short one. John, his brain imploding from the double stimulation of Sherlock's hand and Sherlock's cock, falls first into bliss, his internal muscles squeezing around the younger man, the sensation of that tight, velvet grip ushering Sherlock's own blissful release.

After Sherlock carefully pulls out, John picks up his t-shirt to wipe both of them off. He then lies back, gathering his now oh so soft and pliant partner, letting him lay his curly head on the doctor's chest.

* * *

><p>119.<p>

"Was it good?" asks Sherlock, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

"Yeah, it was good, love. _You_ were very good."

"I'd like you to penetrate me, next time."

"I'd like that too… are you sure? You know I'm not going to demand reciprocity, if you… you know what I mean?"

"Of course, John." They both lie quietly before drifting off to sleep.

John admits to a little soreness the next day, but it gives him a weird sense of satisfaction. As he makes his way to work, he reflects on how far he and Sherlock have come, since that initial meeting in St. Bart's, that aborted attempt at flirtation in Angelo's, his constant denials of the feelings that he had… still has for Sherlock.

And on the way home he ends up making a small detour, that gives him a lot to think about.

* * *

><p>120.<p>

It's a couple of days later that he finally acts, his preparations complete. He tells Sherlock they are going to Angelo's to have dinner. Not an unusual occurrence but one that still has significance for both of them.

They enjoy a pleasant meal at their usual table. When they have finished eating, John nervously puts his hands in his pocket.

"Erm, Sherlock… I've been doing some thinking… you know, about us. And what we are to each other. I was thinking about that time, you remember, when I was stabbed? And the doctors wouldn't let you in to see me?" He pauses when he sees Sherlock nod, his eyes darkening at the memory.

"So, anyway, as I said-"

"John, just spit it out, will you?" Sherlock sounds both impatient and amused.

"Cheers, mate, make this harder will you? God!" John shakes his head but he's smiling as he fishes a small box and puts it on the table. He sees Sherlock looking at it, his face very still and beautiful in the candlelight. He reaches for the box and opens it to reveal to white gold bands.

"I just picked these up today," John says quickly, nervously. "I hope yours is the right size but we can always go back, but I wanted to have them now, you know-"

"Yes, John," Sherlock says calmly. "Perhaps it's time we made our relationship formal."

They both almost jump out of their skin, when Angelo, with a beaming smile, pops open a bottle of champagne.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N this is all the chapters I have so far, need to start chapter 14!**

121.

The ring is slightly too big but they are able to exchange it for a smaller size. They decide to save them for the ceremony. They wander down to Regent's Park as the weather is rather dry and mild, to discuss the when, where and what in regards to their upcoming nuptials. They are both agreed that they don't want a big do. John, when tidying up, found the file that Sherlock had made for John and Mary's wedding. A whole slew of emotions went through him as he looked through Sherlock's meticulous notes, magazine cuttings, material samples and business cards.

He hid it away; he couldn't get rid of it, not with the amount of time Sherlock had spent on it. Though he did remove a photo he found in it, one Sherlock had taken of him trying on his morning suit.

Eventually they settle for a civil ceremony at their local registry office, with a few friends and family in attendance.

* * *

><p>122.<p>

Of course, once the news gets out about their engagement, everyone wants to get involved. Mrs Hudson tells them that she will bake them a wedding cake, though she will hand it to her niece's best friend's boyfriend to decorate it as he has considerable skill in that area. Greg offers to take John out on a stag night and Molly says she will keep Sherlock entertained at the morgue.

Mycroft tells his parents who insist on paying for a small reception at the grooms' venue of choice. Naturally, Angelo offers his restaurant and they accept. Everything seems to fall in place, though it still doesn't stop John from being nervous. After all, at his last wedding, a man was almost murdered. Sherlock assures him that he will have Mycroft run a full background check on everyone taking part in the wedding.

Greg and Molly offer to be best man and matron of honour respectively and Sherlock agrees, if only so they don't have to ask their siblings.

* * *

><p>123.<p>

There's a few weeks to go until the wedding, weeks that are busy with cases, both from the Met and private clients. It's almost too busy, luckily Mrs Hudson has taken over the role of wedding planner with alacrity and obvious enjoyment. It has been a long time coming and she is delighted to have her own 'marrieds' just as Mrs Turner does.

The cake has been made and is off to the cake decorator, her niece having taken it around to her best friend's house with instructions on how to decorate it. Both Sherlock and John refuse to have a traditional cake; instead they are having a single tiered red velvet cake with honey buttercream and it will be decorated with various items that are significant to them. John comments it will look like a crime scene, which is probably appropriate. Mrs Hudson remarks that it 'seems more appropriate to Hallowe'en than a wedding!'

But the cake decorator is more than happy to oblige, especially when he can add to his new business cards, 'Cake Decorator to the World's Only Consulting Detective' on them.

* * *

><p>124.<p>

Despite their hectic schedule, they do try to make time to relax together in their small flat, in between cases. The sofa sees quite a bit of action, as well as their bed, the kitchen table and the carpet in front of the fire. John did draw the line at the lab, as he didn't want to risk getting any unknown substances on his 'family jewels'.

It's been a couple of weeks since the proposal and their first time at penetrative sex. Since then their lovemaking has been back to their usual routine of frottage, hand jobs, blow jobs, including an initially awkward but then incredibly hot simultaneous blow job.

They wake up very late one day as they had been at the Yard until nearly four am wrapping up a case. John goes to use the loo and then into the shower where he's not alone for long. Sherlock joins him, wrapping his long arms around the smaller man and nuzzling his neck as the warm water cascades over them both.

"Please tell me you are coming back to bed after?" he asks.

"Since you said 'please' so nicely," says John leaning back into his fiancé's embrace. The hardness pressing against the small of his back tells him all he needs to know.

* * *

><p>125.<p>

They dry each other off, tenderly and slowly though their skin is moistened again with sweat and saliva from the many kisses they bestow each other. They press against each other but when John reaches down to take them both in hand, Sherlock turns over and press his plush behind into John's groin.

"I want you in me," he rumbles, grinding against John. John's cock gets harder at the thought.

"Yeah, if you're sure?" he asks, his voice layered with desire and concern. John has it in the back of his mind that Sherlock's experiences were worse than his. "We don't have to do this."

"Would you like to?" replies Sherlock, turning to face John. "I know that I would, with you."

John grins and gives Sherlock's buttocks a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah, I would. I'd like nothing more."

* * *

><p>126.<p>

They start with slow kisses and caresses, taking their time to explore each other, as if they haven't done it many times before. John likes the hard, angular planes of Sherlock's body, so different than a woman, yet no less enticing. There wasn't anything feminine about the detective, from his deep baritone to his angular cheekbones and his large, graceful hands.

Sherlock, on the other hand, loves John's compactness, the slightly soft belly that he loves to nuzzle, the disguised strength. People underestimate John because of his lack of height, but Sherlock knows better than to do that. But most of all he loves the contrasts that John offers; the fierce, loyal soldier and the gentle yet firm doctor.

They are both very different yet compatible. They have their differences, times when they don't rub along quite as well, when John gets frustrated with Sherlock's arrogance and the detective becomes impatient with the doctor when he thinks John's being obtuse. But certainly when it comes to their love and expression of it, they are equal.

* * *

><p>127.<p>

Because of John's shoulder, which tends to ache in the cold weather, they decide that they would try with John laying on his back on the bed. After a slow and careful preparation, Sherlock straddles the older man and John finds it incredibly erotic when the detective eventually sinks down on to his cock.

Their eyes lock together as Sherlock fucks himself on John's cock, the doctor with his hand wrapped firmly around the detective's own hard length. John can see the exact moment when Sherlock manages to angle himself so John is hitting his prostate, he can feel it in the way the cock in his hands pulses as the younger man's frankly enthusiastic bouncing slip-slides it through the doctor's grip.

Sherlock eventually spills onto John's hands and stomach, shuddering, squeezing around John who tenses, thrusts up and lets loose his own orgasm. Sherlock carefully eases off the older man and grabbing John's t-shirt and wipes them both off. He discards the t-shirt, always John's Primark ones are used and never Sherlock's Dolce and Gabbana ones, before rolling onto his side next John. John whispers to Sherlock that he's 'gorgeous', 'amazing' and 'brilliant'.

Sherlock will never tire of those words uttered by John. For he rarely heard them from anyone else.

* * *

><p>128.<p>

They are both up now, dressed in pyjamas and dressing gowns, drinking tea and eating toast. John has a look in the fridge, sees that as usual there isn't much in it, makes a mental note to go shopping after work tomorrow and decides they'll have a takeaway later.

They are halfway through their Chinese when Lestrade calls to let Sherlock know they've found a body, the victim has had both hands and feet removed. John puts the leftovers in the fridge and they head for the crime scene.

"You okay, Sherlock? Not, err, sore or anything?" John asks him quietly in the taxi over. He's noticed Sherlock shifting a little in his seat.

"Fine, John," he says. "Although perhaps that sort of activity should be confined to the evenings when we're not going back out again."

John chuckles ruefully and squeezes Sherlock's hand.

"Take it easy, okay? Let Greg's boys do the legwork for once!"

* * *

><p>129.<p>

As Sherlock examines the body and the crime scene, muttering to himself, Lestrade and John watch him. Greg notices that Sherlock is moving a little more carefully than usual.

"Is he okay?" he asks. "He didn't injure himself chasing that suspect yesterday, did he?"

John shakes his head and looks away.

"He's fine," he replies, a little curt. "But I don't think either of us are up for an all nighter."

Greg gives him an odd look.

"Sure, John. Until we get an ID on the body we've little to go on."

"Actually we have quite a lot," interrupts Sherlock, imperiously. He then gives Lestrade a list of observations that he's has made which will help identify the man and possible motives for his murder.

"I'm sure that is more than enough to go on, Gavin, but you can call me in the morning if you need more help. Come along, John."

John follows the billowing Belstaff, leaving the DI shaking his head in astonishment again.

* * *

><p>130.<p>

Back at the flat, Sherlock decides to have a bath before bed. A generous squirt of Mr Matey and he is soaking in a sea of bubbles. John smiles indulgently as he perches on the edge of the bath.

"Can I get you anything? Tea, a rubber duck?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you, John. I'll pass on the duck though. I did used to have a pirate boat in the bath." He sounds so wistful that John makes a mental note to look at bath toys when he goes shopping.

The next day, he does come back with a pirate boat. He doesn't say anything, just leaves it still in the packaging in the bathroom. Sherlock doesn't say anything either, but a couple of weeks later, after Sherlock has another bath, John notices the packaging has been removed and the boat is wet.

Sometimes, his detective is a big kid, but he will never in a million years admit to it.


	14. Chapter 14

131.

"You know it's traditional to not see your intended the night before the wedding?"

"A pointless, outdated tradition, Molly. It would be far more efficient for John and I to remain in our flat together."

"You'll be on your own, because Greg's already offered John to stay at his place. Maybe I can come and stay over with you, I'll paint your toenails again if you want?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You'll be wanting to do my hair and makeup next!" Molly snorted at that.

"I'll do even better than that… I'll bring you something special from the morgue."

Sherlock's eyes light up.

"What?"

"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise! So can I stay at yours the night before the wedding?"

"You'll have to sleep on the sofa. And bring Thai. And you have to promise not to spend three hours in the bathroom." He pauses. "You can do my hair in the morning, if you want. I must look my best for John."

* * *

><p>132.<p>

"I'm really doing it, aren't I? Tomorrow. I'm getting married to a self-absorbed, anti-social, egomaniac." John props his shoeless feet up on Greg's coffee table, as he nurses a glass of Glenfiddich.

"Yep!" says Greg, not bothering to hide the glee in his voice. "Glad it's you and not me, mate. I tell you, there are times I've been tempted to shove him down the nearest manhole. But he's so bloody brilliant you can't help but forgive him. Even if he is a fucking arsehole about it."

John's face softens.

"Yeah, he's all that, Greg. I'll admit it… at times I've had my doubts about us, you know I expected to have the wife, 2.4 kids and all that bollocks. Thought I was going to have all that too. But then it turned out that it wasn't what I wanted at all. Maybe it was just as well how things turned out with… you know. Because I would've regretted so much."

Greg taps his glass against John's.

"You're the making of him, you know that? Sherlock should be getting down on his knees and thanking the day you came into his life. I don't think he'd be with us still, if it weren't for you."

John finishes off his glass.

"He's not the only one, Greg."

* * *

><p>133.<p>

"I have Thai, I have wine and I have popcorn. Have I forgotten anything?"

"My surprise?"

Molly holds up an organ transplant box. Sherlock bounds over and fairly snatches it off her. They go upstairs to the lab so he can open it. He looks inside.

"Oh, this is brilliant!" he crows. "It was very good of you to get these for me! Perhaps it's best you don't tell me how you acquired them." Molly merely smiles.

"I'm not telling you all my secrets!" The contents of the box transferred to the fridge, they go back downstairs to eat their dinner. Afterwards, as Sherlock is already in pyjamas and dressing gown, Molly disappears into the bathroom to change into a fleece bunny onesie and fluffy bunny slippers. Sherlock asks whether Greg has some kind of rabbit fetish. Molly chucks popcorn at him.

Molly insists on watching 'Love, Actually' which he proceeds to deride all through out. Except for the scenes involving the two body doubles; the male one, coincidentally called John, bears a remarkable resemblance to his husband-to-be.

When Sherlock starts waxing lyrical about his John's body, Molly wisely packs him off to bed.

* * *

><p>134.<p>

John wakes up the next morning, by a text alert on his phone.

**_Are you awake? - SH_**

John sighs softly and texts back that he is. Moments later Sherlock is calling him on the phone.

"I don't think we're supposed to speak before the wedding."

"No, Molly said I wasn't allowed to see you. Therefore phone calls are fine." He pauses briefly. "You know… it's not too late to change your mind?"

There is a moment's silence on the line.

"Why would you think I'd do that, you idiot!" says John, exasperated. "I'm not going to change my mind. You and me are going down to that registry office, we'll say our vows and that's it. We're stuck together for life, or axe murder do us part."

"John, I never say this enough, but I do want you to know that I love you."

"I know," says John, his voice soft. "I love you too. Now get off the phone. And eat some breakfast, alright?"

* * *

><p>135.<p>

They arrive at the registry office, Sherlock with Molly and John with Greg. Sherlock's eyes are wide as he takes in John looking dashing in his RAMC dress uniform. Sherlock is wearing a traditional morning suit, with a wine coloured cravat and pale cream embossed waistcoat.

Everyone else already is there; Mycroft and the Holmes parents, Mrs Hudson, Mrs Turner, Angelo, Billy Wiggins, Mike Stamford and Harry with Vicki, her girlfriend.

Everyone goes in and takes their places and without much ado, the wedding is conducted. The ceremony doesn't take long; they read out the vows they have written, the marriage officiant pronounces them married. When they kiss, briefly and chastely, aware of their audience, everyone claps.

They sign the registrar, posing for photos with the fake one afterwards. Before they leave, John glances down at his ring.

"We really did it," he remarks, sounding slightly awestruck. Sherlock has a soft smile on his face as he takes John's hand in his.

"We did."

* * *

><p>136.<p>

As to the vows, they were very simple, eloquent and deeply personal. Sherlock was the first to speak, taking John's strong, compact hands between his slender, long ones.

"John, you have made me a better person and that I have asked… no _demanded_ so much from you. Yet you put up with me when no one else would, loved me when I thought I was incapable of love or being loved. You found my heart, you _are_ my heart. You showed me that sentiment wasn't necessarily a weakness, that it can drive us to commit acts of greatness.

"I say now, in front of our friends and family, that I love you, John Watson and I always will."

John smiled gently up at his partner, the love of his life.

"Sherlock, I was broken and you made me whole. It's hard, you know, for me to put into words how I feel about you, how I fell in love with you. I think I did, the moment we met, only it took me so long to realise it, that it was almost too late. I'm glad it wasn't though, I'm glad we made it here today.

"I love you, so, so much, Sherlock Holmes. And I vow too, in front of our family and friends, that I will stay by your side, for as long as you need me. And I hope you will always need me, just like I need you."

There were a few sniffles, rustlings of handkerchiefs and soft sighs at that. At least Mike Stamford waited until after the ceremony before blowing his nose rather loudly.

* * *

><p>137.<p>

Angelo had laid on a delicious buffet, both John and Sherlock rejecting the idea of a sit down meal. That gives them ample opportunity for them to mingle amongst their guests. There are a few additions to the wedding party, Sally Donovan and a couple of others from Lestrade's team, some of John's ex-army mates and a few ex clients, including Henry Knight, who looks happier and healthier than when Sherlock and John had last seen him at Baskerville.

There are speeches by Greg and Molly, then it's time to cut the cake. The cake has been beautifully iced and decorated with handcuffs, crime scene tape, a pair of dog tags, a skull, a violin, a pink suitcase, a severed hand, a jade hairpin and a red eyed hound, all made from sugar paste. Henry Knight calls dibs on that last item, much to the puzzlement of his wife.

John and Sherlock both cut the cake, showing the blood red interior. The cake is then parcelled out amongst the guests.

"It's lovely," says Molly, "But I don't think the honey in the buttercream really works with chocolate cake!" Looking around, as Mrs H had warned them, it seems that many of the guests agree. _Oh well_, thinks John, _looking at Sherlock scoffing his piece with enthusiasm, can't please everyone!_

* * *

><p>138.<p>

Once everyone has finished eating, Angelo directs his staff to clear some space to allow for dancing. The music changes from generic Italian pop music to a solo violin. Sherlock looks slightly confused at first, then stares at John who shrugs and smiles sheepishly.

"Took quite some doing, to record you playing without you knowing. I confess that Mycroft helped, lent me some equipment then arranged a cleanup of the playback. So, would you like to dance?"

They do indeed. as the others watch on, listening to the recording of Sherlock playing the piece he had written for John last year. The tempo perfectly suits a waltz, which is the only dance John is confident with, one that Sherlock had taught him, seemingly a lifetime ago. Others joined them, Greg and Molly, Mr and Mrs Holmes, senior, Sally and her new boyfriend. But as far as Sherlock and John are concerned, they are all alone in the room.

* * *

><p>139.<p>

At midnight, though the party is in full swing, the happy couple decide to head home. There's a few wolf whistles and lewd remarks, but they are ignored as they hurry outside to find a taxi. They head straight for the bedroom once they arrive.

"John, stop," says Sherlock as John starts to remove his jacket.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I want you to leave it on."

"What, my uniform?" John stares at him incredulously. "I was planning us getting naked and getting off with each other. Can't do that if we're dressed!"

"Actually, I err," Sherlock mutters something very quietly.

"You what?!"

"I. want. you. to. fuck. me." the detective enunciates clearly. "Wearing your uniform."

John looks at him incredulously, seeing Sherlock shifting uncomfortably on the bed, looking very sheepish. Then he smiles; he's always suspected that his partner has a military kink.

"Alright then," he says, as he unfastens his trousers. "Clothes off, on your hands and knees now, soldier!"

"Yes, sir, Captain!" Sherlock scrambles to obey.

"And if you get come on my uniform, you can take it to the dry cleaners!"

* * *

><p>140.<p>

They sleep for a few hours, then John is woken up by a mouth on his cock. He doesn't mind this kind of wake-up and lies pliant on the bed as his… _husband, Christ, he was going to have get used to that!_ fingers him into an open, squirming mess, begging to be filled. Sherlock, who is very much determined to please his spouse in every way, obliges him.

After another couple of hours sleep, they get up and shower, then John makes breakfast. They have nothing planned today, they did discuss a honeymoon, or as Sherlock insists it's called, a sex holiday. Sherlock pointed out that they could have all the sex they want in 221B, in fact that is something they do anyway.

John does at least get Sherlock to promise they can book a holiday in somewhere hot and all inclusive for the summer. After all, Mycroft did promise to pay for a hon- sex holiday. And it would be churlish of them not to take him up on the offer.

**A/N I am really busy with RL stuff atm, so I'm only going to update this weekly from now on, plus I have a couple of other works in another fandom that I want to work on!**

**But I am continuing this!**

**Thanks again to my amazing beta**!


	15. Chapter 15

141.

It's fair to say that marriage doesn't change much at Baker Street. Sherlock still has The Work, still plays the violin at ungodly hours and forgets to buy milk when he nips to Tesco to pick up yet more lube. John still does most of the shopping, accompanies the detective on most of his cases and shouts at Sherlock for using his laptop because the lazy git can't be bothered to get his own from the bedroom.

They keep their own names, after squabbling for about two hours about whether Holmes-Watson sounds better than Watson-Holmes. John agrees with Sherlock's point that it means there is no pointless faffing with paperwork and other such boring minutiae involved in changing names.

Though John does smile when Sherlock introduces him to clients.

"This is my husband, Dr John Watson. John. My husband."

* * *

><p>142.<p>

As one would expect, the news is in the papers. Along with a couple of photos of the happy couple leaving the registry office.

"You know," reflects John, as he reads a small piece in The Guardian about their relationship, a dry and mostly factual article. "We missed a trick. Should've sold rights to our wedding to 'Hello' magazine."

"Actually, we did get a offer," says Sherlock. "From 'My Weekly'. They offered me a free lifetime subscription if we grant them an exclusive interview."

John chuckled.

"They found you on their list of subscribers then? So what did you say?"

"I declined, naturally. There is enough sentimentalism on your blog. No need to inflict it on the wider world."

"Cheers, thanks for that," retorts the blogger, dryly. "Need I remind you again, who gets you the most cases, outside of Lestrade?"

Sherlock hurrumphs in reply and carries on with the experiment he's working on.

His husband smiles and turns to the sports page.

* * *

><p>143.<p>

Not long after, a rather different kind of magazine, a small and charity funded one based in Manchester contacts the detective. One that advocates rights for all those who fall outside the cis-het categorisation of sexuality. They are struggling to get the Greater Manchester Police to properly investigate the apparent suicide of one of their journalists, a male to female transsexual. The magazine's team refuse to believe she could have killed herself, especially as she was close to the date of her longed-for top and bottom surgery.

Sherlock takes the case, despite the fact they can't afford to pay him anything beyond travel expenses. Not only does he solve it, unearthing proof that Lydia was indeed murdered, by her brother, but the usually media shy detective agreed for him and John to do an exclusive interview with the magazine. John is reluctant at first, but after a brief chat with Harry over the phone decides to go ahead with it.

He remembers Harry's coming out, how difficult it had been for her when their parents had been so unsupportive. To his shame, he'd never really come out as bisexual because he'd seen what it had done to his older sister.

* * *

><p>144.<p>

The journalist, a erudite young woman, asks probing questions but is generally respectful, especially where John, naturally suspicious, is concerned. He even speaks briefly about his brief marriage to Mary Morstan, but only in the barest detail. Sherlock is amazed and touched, when he states for the first time publicly, that if Sherlock had not faked his death, his relationship with Mary wouldn't have happened.

The interview concludes satisfactorily and they get a copy of the magazine when it is published. They are pleased by excellent quality of the article, which focuses mainly on Sherlock's work, much to the detective's pleasure, before touching on the evolution of their relationship.

As a result of the article the circulation of the magazine increases and they even secure extra funding from the National Lottery Fund. And both John's and Sherlock's email inboxes are full to bursting of supportive comments and best of all, new cases.

* * *

><p>145.<p>

In May, about two months after the wedding, John gets an interview for the permanent job in the surgery he is currently working. The doctor for whom he is covering has relocated to Leeds but as her maternity leave does not officially end until August, the practice is unable to give him a permanent contract until then. He enjoys working there and is liked by his colleagues and patients, though sometimes it does get a little tiresome when patients ask him if he is 'the John Watson, the one that married Sherlock Holmes'.

John doesn't really socialise with his fellow doctors as life with the world's only consulting detective doesn't give him the luxury to have a regular social life, beyond the odd drink down the pub with Lestrade or having dinner over at Harry's. Sherlock never goes to those dinners as he finds Harry and her girlfriend dull.

John likes his work, the mundanity of it, the routine. He knew if he did it full time it would grind him down with boredom, so different was it from being a trauma surgeon in the army. Sometimes though, he thinks that when Sherlock does tire of running around London and wants to retire, he would be happy working part time in a small country practice while Sherlock studied apiculture.

* * *

><p>146.<p>

"I've been offered the job," says John as he enters the flat. Sherlock looks at him blankly and John sighs.

"You know, at the practice. They're going to make me permanent. Still working just the two and half days a week. Perhaps with some overtime." Sherlock gets up from where he was sat in his chair and comes over to John.

"Congratulations, John," he says giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I assume you are going to take it?"

"I'd like to," says John. "It'll keep my practising license current, give us a bit of extra income."

"If that is what you want, then you should do it. Don't forget that we are to book a holiday in September."

"I've already advised them of the dates," smiles John. "It's not a problem."

"Get my laptop. It's past time we booked this holiday."

* * *

><p>147.<p>

Major James Sholto didn't attend John and Sherlock's wedding as he was in Canada visiting an old friend who had got in touch, not long after the attempt on his life. John keeps in touch with him sporadically, mainly by email, meaning to meet up but somehow never getting around to it.

However, John is pleased, when he checks his inbox, to find there is a new email from James advising him that he will be in London on the following Tuesday and 'could he take John and his husband to lunch?'

John thinks carefully about accepting the invitation. The wedding to Mary is now a sore point for both of them. He knows now that Sherlock been putting a brave face the whole day, broken hearted as he'd been with his realisation that he was indeed in love with John. He doesn't reply to the email, instead marks it as 'unread' to come back to it later.

* * *

><p>148.<p>

Sherlock doesn't know that John had seen the look of pain on his face and what it meant after Sherlock had made his 'vow' at the wedding reception. He doesn't know that John had seen Sherlock leave and so had Mary.

He doesn't know that John laughed off Mary's tactless remark that even his best friend's wedding wouldn't stop the detective going off on a case, laughing to hide the anger at his new bride. Neither does he knows that John covered up his anger and dismay by drinking so much that he passed out on the bed of their wedding night hotel room before they could consummate the marriage.

Sherlock doesn't know that the next morning John had apologised to Mary, who forgave him graciously, for getting so drunk, but after they had make up sex, John wondered where Sherlock had really gone.

* * *

><p>149.<p>

"I've had an email from James Sholto," he says to Sherlock. They are in the upstairs lab, where Sherlock is culturing bacteria from soil samples. He looks up, at John thoughtfully.

"Your ex-commander. Almost killed at your first wedding," replies Sherlock, flatly. "Has he had another death threat?"

"Err, no actually. He's going to be in London next week and wants to take us out for dinner, to make up for missing our wedding."

"Sounds tedious. Perhaps you should go… I'm sure you will have a splendid time reminiscing over your army days."

John frowns at the petulant note in his husband's voice and sighs in irritation.

"Hmm… so I assume you'd rather I didn't go?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, just stares fixedly at his petri dishes.

John throws up his hands and walks out of the lab. As much as he loves his husband, he knows he cannot put up with Sherlock's jealousy.

* * *

><p>150.<p>

Later that evening John is reading in bed, when Sherlock slips quietly into the room. He undresses and then gets into the bed.

"You know… this is different now, Sherlock. It's not like when you felt threatened by my girlfriends-"

"I did not feel 'threatened', John," retorts his husband, affronted. "I was merely concerned for you."

John let out a humourless laugh.

"No. You weren't." He sighs. "Christ, Sherlock, I don't want to fight over this. I want to see my friend without you acting like a jealous twat. I love you, I married you, for fuck's sake!"

Then he sees the lost, vulnerable look on Sherlock's face. John pulls him in close, kisses him tenderly.

"I think we need to have a talk."


	16. Chapter 16

151.

"You know, you used to really piss me me off with your constant sabotaging of my dates."

Sherlock pouts.

"I needed you more than they did. They were distracting you from the Work."

They are sat in their bed, Sherlock resting his head on John's shoulder. He heaves a sigh and looks up at the smaller man, looking unusually contrite.

"John… you know that I am impossible and have no boundaries. This… what we have is still very new to me. And at times, I'm afraid that I will eventually drive you away."

"Oh Sherlock, you idiot," John says, his tone affectionate. "I love you. And I do know you. Yet I'm still here and I promise, I am not going anywhere."

"John, my John." Sherlock says as he works a hand under John's t-shirt, then nuzzling his neck. "Forgive me, please, for my foolishness."

"Of course, I forgive you, love."

* * *

><p>151.<p>

John knows he must reassure his husband with not just words, but touch. He takes his time worshipping the slender, pale skinned frame, with his hands, lips and tongue, until they are both hard and aching.

They are lying on their sides facing each other, dark blue eyes locked on to light green ones. John shuffles down slightly so their cocks are aligned and wraps his hand around the both of them. Sherlock rested his face in John's silvery gold hair as John strokes them both, tenderly yet firmly.

"I want you to come with me, Sherlock," the doctor says softly.

Sherlock murmurs his husband's name over and over again, until they come, their gasps mingling together as they are carried on a wave of passion, that deposits them gently into a state of utter bliss. John wipes them with some tissues and they fall asleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

* * *

><p>152.<p>

John meets James alone in the end, they have dinner at Claridges, finding a discreet table in a quiet corner. They never had a chance to talk much at John's first wedding and by the time John had come back from honeymoon, James had already been discharged from hospital and had returned home.

So they spend a good couple of hours talking about their time in the army. It isn't easy at first, both of them have painful memories but it's John who breaks the ice, reminding James of Bill Murray, the orderly who'd saved John's life when he was shot. That sets them off telling stories about Bill who had been a famous prankster in their company.

"He came to the reception… you know, mine and Sherlock's." John looks expectantly at the Major. "I'm sorry you couldn't make it."

James searches his former subordinate's face, seeing the need for approval the younger man always has.

"I'm sorry to have missed it," he replies sincerely. "You and Sherlock are very lucky to have each other. I hope you will have years of happiness together."

* * *

><p>153.<p>

The meal eventually comes to an end and the two men part with a friendly handshake, promising to keep in touch. James has advised the doctor that he is considering emigrating to Canada, the friend he saw has a job opportunity that would be ideal for him. John is pleased for him, glad that he can make a fresh start, away from the tragic events that invalided him from the army.

John is content, heading back to Baker Street. James is genuinely happy for him, happy that John has found someone to love him, who loves him in return. James had told him he heard about the interview that John and Sherlock had done and had acquired a copy of the magazine.

John was both saddened and touched when the Major expressed his admiration for John becoming open about his sexuality; he himself had never come out. However, he did say he hoped that the friend in Canada would become more than a friend. John smiles at him.

"If there's even a chance… don't let it pass. God knows, I nearly did. And I'm glad I didn't. Sherlock… well. I think you know by now he means everything to me."

* * *

><p>154.<p>

Sherlock is in his lab when John gets back. He changes into his pyjamas before heading up the stairs. Quietly, he observes him, seeing the detective-cum-analytical-chemist concentrating hard on his work. He appears to be doing a set of titrations, pH tests, John guesses, seeing the burettes and solutions of phenolphthalein, methyl red and phenol red.

Once, he did ask why Sherlock didn't just invest in a pH meter, or even some pH paper. But Sherlock told him that he finds the process of titration to be relaxing, that it helps fine tune his senses and delivers an acceptable level of accuracy. John also thinks he likes the aesthetics of the colour changes.

Whereas John likes the aesthetics of watching a master chemist at work, seeing the graceful fingers ease open the tap that lets the titrant through into the solution one drop at a time, the sharp green eyes that seem to detect the minutest colour change that heralds the endpoint.

John hopes that Sherlock won't be long as he is suddenly feeling rather horny.

* * *

><p>155.<p>

Unfortunately it's another one of those nights when Sherlock is in too deep into his work to be aware of anything around him. Eventually John goes to bed, knowing that perhaps Sherlock will join him, perhaps he won't.

He may wake up alone, to find Sherlock still working upstairs, or hopefully he will wake to find his husband wrapped around him, snoring gently.

John never takes it to heart, he knows it is part and parcel of what Sherlock is. He definitely thinks that Sherlock is much less self-centred than he used to be, it's more often than not that he goes to bed at the same time as the older man, even when they have a case. John thinks part of it due to the detective getting older and slowing down, but John likes to think that it's mostly due to him.

He's glad when he does wake up to find Sherlock asleep in their bed, his head on John's chest and an arm wrapped possessively around him.

* * *

><p>156.<p>

John is invited to a medical conference in Leeds, one that will take him away for three nights. It's the first time since John moved back to Baker Street that they've been apart.

The conference is informative but John returns tired, having slept poorly. Sherlock is equally grumpy and the doctor notes that the detective has hardly eaten a thing and the bed looks as though it has not been slept in.

It seems that the two of them need each other to get a good night's sleep. After a takeaway curry, during which Sherlock tells him about the mind numbingly boring case he worked on while John was away 'Really it was a five, if I'm being generous!', which took two and a half days to solve.

They finish the evening watching some ridiculous action movie with Sherlock providing commentary, before heading to bed.

One would think they would be all over each other, after spending a few days apart but they aren't. They lay on their sides facing each other, close enough to breathe in each others breath, until sleep takes them.

* * *

><p>157.<p>

They both sleep in until they are woken by Sherlock's phone heralding a text message. Sherlock retrieves the phone from his dressing gown pocket. It's Lestrade, requesting him at a crime scene. Since John is not due in to work until the next day, they both go.

The case is not particularly intriguing, probably only rating a four on Sherlock's scale but he takes it anyway. John thinks it might be because the dead man was a war veteran, wounded in action in Basra. He and his wife of two weeks have been murdered but although Lestrade have a viable suspect, the evidence they have is somewhat tenuous. Fortunately, after much muttering about bungled forensics, Sherlock finds the evidence they are looking for and find the real killer, the bride's brother, who attempted, rather poorly in the detective's opinion, to frame the groom's best man.

As they leave the yard, John asks Sherlock why he took the case. It seemed to him that Lestrade could've figured things out on his own eventually; it had taken very little effort on Sherlock's part to find the evidence Lestrade needed.

"The best man was in love with the groom," Sherlock says. "I saw from the photos of the wedding on the bride's phone."

* * *

><p>158.<p>

It's a quiet cab ride back to Baker Street as John contemplates Sherlock's response to his question, both of them deep in their own thoughts. John is confused, glad that Sherlock solved the case and freed an innocent man but also uncomfortable at being reminded of things he'd much rather forget.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is regretting his honesty, not blinded to how it affected his husband. He reflects on how much he has changed in the years since he has known John, knowing that in the days pre-John, he would've been oblivious to his husband's reaction. As for the case itself, it would've been dismissed as unworthy of his time.

Tentatively, he reaches over to take John's broad, calloused hand in his own large, graceful one, secretly relieved when John squeezes it gently.

* * *

><p>159.<p>

When they get in, John goes to the bookcase where he stores, in a box, the album from his wedding to Mary. He gets it out and puts it in front of Sherlock, who is sat at the table and sits down next to him.

"I don't even know why I keep this, Sherlock," admits John. "Knowing what I know now… about how you felt about me. Christ, Sherlock. No wonder you bloody left!

"And she knew, before the wedding, knew she was pregnant. Knew David was the father. She told me everything. Told me that she deliberately dropped the signs in front of you, knowing you'd work it out. Because she wanted to let you know that she had won. She just didn't expect you to tell me at the wedding. You stole her thunder, you see."

He picks up the album, takes it downstairs and puts it in the bin before returning. Sherlock is still sat silent, staring at the table. John stands next to him, gently cupping the sharp cheekboned face in his hands.

"I'm yours, Sherlock. No one is ever going to take you away from me."

* * *

><p>160.<p>

John leads Sherlock to the bedroom where they slowly and tenderly make love, taking their time, getting close to the edge, then pulling back. They are vaguely aware of a phone ringing at some point, but they ignore it, too absorbed in each other. A knock on the door goes unanswered as well, though John is vaguely relieved he remembered to lock it.

Although they are sometimes noisy when having sex, this isn't one of those times. There are just soft moans, puffs of breath against warmed skin, whispered endearments; 'John, my John, my heart, my conductor of light', 'God, Sherlock, you gorgeous man, I can't believe you're mine!'

Eventually, they cannot put off the final moment any longer. Communicating without words, John offers himself up to his beloved, accepting first his fingers, then his beautiful cock inside his body. He lets out a sigh of satisfaction as Sherlock sinks into him, every particle of skin alive with sensation, neurons firing in his brain, the centre of his libido.

Smooth, long strokes only slightly delay the onset of orgasm as John comes merely from the stimulation of his prostate and the sensation of his own cock pressed between their stomachs. Sherlock cries wordlessly as he comes inside his husband.

Perhaps now, the last of their demons have been vanquished.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N Thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews! This is likely to be the penultimate chapter.**

161.

They do have their holiday, courtesy of Mycroft. John takes charge of the booking, but Sherlock does insist that the holiday is no more than two weeks and the accommodation must have WiFi. He intends to keep in touch with Lestrade.

"Can't have London's criminals thinking they can take advantage of my absence," remarks Sherlock.

They opt for an all inclusive holiday to Sorrento in Italy. Both men are keen to visit the ancient ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii, to marvel at the beauty and destructive power of Mount Vesuvius. They do so, admiring the ancient frescos, dwelling on the tragic figures cast in stone, victims of the eruption. John has to intervene when Sherlock starts trying to pod the casts, the doctor casting nervous looks at the security guards.

When they return, John is as brown as a berry and Sherlock is a little less pale than usual. Mrs Hudson thanks them for the limoncello, even as she notes how contented they both look.

* * *

><p>162.<p>

"You've gained weight, Brother dear," remarks Mycroft. "Married life obviously agrees with you."

The two of them are sat opposite each other, in the armchairs in the Baker Street flat. John has gone back to work after their holiday and Mycroft has brought Sherlock some files he wants the detective to look at.

"In that case," retorts the younger Holmes, "Might I suggest you don't seek out conjugal bliss? Your fitness regime would suffer and you'd put on a lot more than the half stone I've gained."

"As if!" his brother sneers back at him. "And there's one way marriage has not improved you, you still stoop to childish insults."

"And you were the one who suggested we play 'Kerplunk!' for a change," smirks Sherlock as he delicately removed a green straw. A couple of marbles move but none fall. "Your turn, Mycroft!"

* * *

><p>162.<p>

Sherlock has a particularly tricky case, involving an obscure fictional work about a pharmaceutical chemist in the Amazon, the author of which has died in the same way as his protagonist's chief rival in his book. He is perusing some papers written by the dead author and others, surmising that one of his collaborators is the guilty party.

John is sat watching him on the opposite side of the small table in their living room. Sherlock's nose is scrunched up in concentration as he examines the papers and John is fascinated by the crinkle between iridescent green eyes. He is fighting the urge to reach other and stroke that small crease, which makes the detective look twelve years old.

He is reminded of what he'd written in his first blog post about Sherlock, he had made the same observation then, along with a few less flattering ones, he remembers with a feeling of guilt. He realises he's neglected his blog lately and is determined to rectify it.

* * *

><p>163.<p>

Sherlock identifies the author's killer and passes his deductions onto Lestrade, basking in John's effusive praise at his cleverness. One would think that John would become immune to Sherlock's brilliance over time, but he is still as impressed by his husband's rapier mind as on the day they met.

He intends to reflects this as he gets his notes together and updates his blog with a few of Sherlock's most recent cases.

**_Honestly, if Sherlock hadn't noticed the missing thimble from the cabinet and deduced its whereabouts, Mrs Dawson's niece would've got away scot free!_**

_**He was just so brilliant today, the suspect thought he'd fooled everyone, including Sherlock, but he himself was being led into an ingenious trap.**_

_**Just two days into investigating a five-year-old cold case, Sherlock finally found the murder weapon, craftily hidden in the victim's next door neighbour's tool shed. Totally not what anyone was expecting! And to think, Sherlock figured it out from the shape of the wound in a photo of the victim's cracked skull! Amazing!**_

* * *

><p>164.<p>

They spend their first Christmas as a married couple at Sherlock's parents' house. John was reluctant at first, thinking of bad memories; it is now two years since Sherlock killed Charles Augustus Magnusson.

They are both warmly welcomed by Mr and Mrs Holmes, the regal matriarch of the family giving them both a fierce hug, Sherlock squirming uncomfortably, John tense at first but then melting into the maternal embrace.

They stay for a few days, enjoying plenty of home cooking and baking and things are pretty civil, even when Mycroft joins them for Christmas Day. No one is rendered unconscious, no one is killed, there are no ex-assassins present, just a lot of love, warm feelings and Christmas presents.

* * *

><p>165.<p>

They celebrate New Year's Eve in Greg's offices in New Scotland Yard, now something of a tradition. They are partying with the yarders, drinking some kind of punch, which has God knows what in it.

Sherlock's cheeks are flushed and John is feeling pretty merry himself, though he is determined not to drink any more alcohol, wanting to look out for his husband, who although is incomparable in many ways, simply cannot hold his drink.

Sherlock is talking at a young constable, a new recruit judging by her glazed, wide-eyed stare as the detective rambles on at her about modern day forensic techniques and the inadequate training some people have on the proper execution of a fingertip search.

Eventually, Greg takes pity on her and propels a good looking young sergeant from Vice in her direction. Sherlock doesn't even notice when his audience disappears, as John distracts him with a gentle kiss.

* * *

><p>166.<p>

The detective does at least remain mostly lucid, his arm slung around his husband's shoulders as the New Year is rung in. The room is filled with mostly off-key singing of 'Auld Lang Syne', Greg is one of the loudest of them all. Molly, who was also invited as Greg's date, is grinning at the silver haired detective. He's standing up on a desk, encouraged by his team, singing louder than anyone. John observes with concern that he is in danger of falling; the desk is slightly wobbly and the detective inspector on top of it is even more so.

Happily there is no tumbling Lestrade and the party eventually winds down. Not even attempting to get a taxi, John and Sherlock totter the two miles home to Baker Street. They probably would get home quicker had Sherlock not insisting snogging his husband in every other alleyway.

They get yelled at by a couple of passing drunks but Sherlock merely yells back at them.

"We're MARRIED, we can snog where we like!" which sets off John giggling. They do make it back to Baker Street and manage to fall into the bed before they both pass out.

* * *

><p>167.<p>

The next morning finds both of them nursing hangovers, John stumbling around trying to find the extra strength Anadin. New Year's Day is spent is spent mainly in bed, only getting up for cups of tea, more Anadin and rounds of toast, mostly made by John.

Later on, when they are feeling somewhat more human, they take a bath, both of them sinking into the tub together, John laying back in Sherlock's arms.

The warm water works on them both to soothe both their minds and bodies, inducing a pleasant lethargy in the both of them, one they don't often experience.

When the water cools enough to be uncomfortable, they get out, carefully dry off and, after changing the sheets for fresh ones, crawl into bed.

"Happy New Year," whispers John as he spoons up behind Sherlock.

"Happy New Year," murmurs Sherlock, holding tight to the arm wrapped around his waist.

* * *

><p>168.<p>

Time flies by fast when you're having fun and it certainly does for Sherlock and John. Murder, embezzlements, missing fortunes and cryptic messages keep them fully occupied to the point they almost miss their first wedding anniversary. Luckily they have good friends, Greg, Molly and Mrs Hudson, who see fit to remind them. Mrs Hudson makes them a cake and Molly arranges for their favourite Chinese food to be delivered to their flat, with a stern admonishment to Greg to not text them with a case for the next twenty four hours.

John and Sherlock eat their Chinese and afterwards John takes both their phones, putting in a reminder in their calendar for next year.

"Clearly we're getting on a bit," jokes John. "Can't have us forgetting again!"

"Speak for yourself!" retorts Sherlock. John laughs and then proceeds to show Sherlock that even if his memory is slightly dodgy sometimes, there are other areas in which he could outperform a younger man. Especially when wringing out a spectacular orgasm from the World's Only Consulting Detective.

* * *

><p>169.<p>

It's been fifteen years since they first met. They've got a few wedding anniversaries under their belts since that first one. They don't exchange cards or gifts, as that isn't their way, but they still like to mark the occasion in an understated way. Only once did they fail to do so, when they were in a middle of a case. Even then, it was simply a postponement, until the case had been solved.

It's usually fancy treats from the Selfridge's food court and good wine, spending the evening curled up on the sofa under a blanket, watching James Bond movies.

Then another kind of appetite demands to be satisfied, their physical desire for each other which has only grown over the years. Their lovemaking is intense and mutually satisfying. But the best part of it is when afterwards, lying in a tangle of sweaty, sticky limbs, they murmur sweet sentiments to each other.

"My brilliant love!"

"My John!"

"Gorgeous, gorgeous, Sherlock, what did I do to deserve you?"

"I am yours, always, always. There is no one else for me but you."

* * *

><p>170.<p>

John is fifty eight now and Sherlock is fifty four. They are slowing down considerably now; the last strands of blond in John's hair are long gone and Sherlock's curls are a mixture of silver and smoke. Crow's feet are more prominent around their eyes and John's laughter lines, that Sherlock loves to trace with his fingers, are deepening.

The casework is starting to wind down and they are less physically involved, though their contributions are valued as always. But John is not up to chasing across rooftops anymore, not since a bad fall had broken his collarbone a few months before. Unfortunately it was his left shoulder, the one that still aches from that long ago gunshot wound.

So for John's sake, Sherlock doesn't run off like a man possessed, lets the police do the legwork, though he finds it frustrating at times. But when he sees the flash of pain across John's face as he puts a heavy bag of groceries on the kitchen table, Sherlock knows that perhaps it's time to make other plans.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N So this is the last chapter! Thank you for all the reviews, favourites and follows! And to the guest reviewer who left such lovely reviews, please login so I can reply to you personally :)**

171.

The Baker Street house had been purchased by Sherlock and John, with help from Mycroft, ten years previously. Mrs Hudson had sold the house to them to help fund her retirement to Brighton, where she moved in with her sister. The increasingly frail but still sharp-witted octogenarian cried to be leaving her boys but she extracted promises from both of them to visit, promises John assured her they would keep.

So when their former landlady and not their housekeeper passes away, she has John and Sherlock by her side, easing her passing. Both men grieve for the woman they both loved as a mother.

"She always knew about us, didn't she?" comments John to Sherlock. "Even when I refused to acknowledge it." The two of them hold each other tightly, unashamed tears flowing from both of them.

* * *

><p>172.<p>

So when it comes to their own retirement, it's a simple case of putting the house on the market, John handing his notice in at the practice he was working and Sherlock wrapping up the Work.

Then Sherlock springs a surprise on his husband. Janine, who Sherlock has kept in touch with sporadically over the years, is selling her cottage on the Downs. She never did get rid of the beehives, Sherlock is delighted to learn, though they are currently empty. Janine is relocating to the South of France and is offering the cottage to the detective and his husband, before it goes on the market, at a very good price.

John has long got past his jealousy over Janine, fortunately, so is willing to keep an open mind. Still, Sherlock is careful to arrange a viewing of the property when Janine is not at home.

* * *

><p>173.<p>

They elect to spend a couple of days in the nearby town of Wick, the cottage itself being situated on the outskirts of Lyminster. It is a large two up, two down cottage, with a large workshop to the rear, that Janine uses for storage. The house is decorated in a chintzy, floral style, causing John to mutter 'we'll have to redecorate!". The fixtures are all modern, the kitchen, in particular, is full of the latest time-saving gadgets. John does like the breakfast room off the kitchen that overlooks the Downs and the beautiful garden that even has its own large vegetable plot.

The cottage is set in a large tract of land, guaranteeing them privacy; the house is reached by a quarter of mile driveway from the main road. And in the field next to the garden are half a dozen beehives that Sherlock examines with excitement. Unfortunately twenty years of neglect have left them in a sorry state but Sherlock is not put off at all. He has been doing his own research into hives that allow honey to be harvested without disturbing the bees.

They head back to Wick for a leisurely dinner and even more leisurely lovemaking in the comfortable hotel bed. The next morning, Sherlock makes Janine an offer which she readily accepts.

* * *

><p>174.<p>

The Baker Street house is sold; Sherlock and John move without fanfare, extending invitations to visit to Greg, Molly and their two children. Greg has recently retired himself, Molly will be working a few more years.

Sherlock and John have kept in close contact with the Lestrades, watching their two children grow. They are both fond of their Uncle John and Uncle Sherlock, the two men have been an integral part of their lives.

Sometimes, when he sees John helping Julia with her Biology homework or admiring Matt's sketches, he wonders if John regrets them not having children of their own. However, John is always quick to reassure his husband that he doesn't. Sherlock is all that he needs.

* * *

><p>175.<p>

John is fifty nine and Sherlock is fifty five when they finally move out of London for good. Sherlock gets his bees and John finds part time work at a practice in Wick, which allows him plenty of time to work on his book. He wants to properly and permanently record his life with Sherlock, to share some of the experiences he wasn't able to put on his blog.

But John also remembers a long-ago promise to his husband and starts a little bit of research unrelated to the book he wants to write. They have kept up their donations to the dog rescue shelter that they'd started years ago, although their first adoption had long since passed on. In both of their wills is a bequest to the shelter and the monthly donation will continue on for the rest of their lives.

However the time is right now, living in a cottage with a large garden and plenty of gently rolling hills around it, John can make Sherlock's wish come true.

* * *

><p>176.<p>

John loves that, even in his mid-fifties, Sherlock still has the eternal child about him. He is almost bouncing in excitement as they enter the dog rescue. They are both in agreement they would rather give a home to a rescue dog. Sadly there are many to choose from and John fears Sherlock would want to rehome all of them.

As it happens, they end up with two dogs. The first is a two year old that looks mostly like a Springer, slim and elegant, with a wavy white and light brown coat, the second, a three year old, black and tan Staffordshire Bull Terrier. Apparently the two of them were brought into the home at roughly the same time and had become instant friends. The Springer had to be rehomed when his owner suddenly died and the Staffy was rehomed by the pregnant partner of the dog's owner, who had read too many horror stories about the breed attacking children. It didn't seem to matter to her that the dog was clearly as soft as shite.

Both dogs are neutered females and after some deliberation, the Springer is named Curie and the Staffy is named Dot.

* * *

><p>177.<p>

Don't be mistaken into believing they have abandoned London for good. They make regular day trips by train to revisit some of their old haunts, as well as visiting Greg and Molly who have recently moved out to Gillingham, Kent, into a two bed semi, now their youngest has moved out for good.

Greg and Molly keep John and Sherlock up to date with the what the children are up to, as they reminisce about their own lives. Sherlock keeps everyone entertained with stories and deductions about the people they meet where they live now.

"What it is to be young again," sighs John as he and Sherlock turn in for the night. "I'm bloody knackered!"

Sherlock slips a hand under John's t-shirt.

"Not too knackered, I hope!"

* * *

><p>178.<p>

Their lovemaking may have decreased in frequency as they grow older and is less frantic, but it is still meaningful and intense. There's a fireplace in their sitting room and they do still enjoy touching each other under a fleece blanket, lit by the warm, flickering glow of the fire as they bring each other off with their hands.

One hot summer day, they set out the blanket on the grass in the back garden, the two dogs drowsing together under the shade of a willow tree at the bottom of the garden. The two men undress slowly, loving the seclusion of their home with its leylandii hedges, field full of hives and isolation, then John lays on his back while Sherlock sinks deep into him.

Mostly though, the physical expression of their love tends to be in their bed, limbs entwined as they frot against each other. They are so in tune with each other they are able to delay orgasm until they are both ready for release. Times like these John realises how symbiotic their relationship is.

* * *

><p>179.<p>

Sherlock studies his bees, contributing to research helping increase the population, which has fallen almost to less than viable levels in the last decade. John completes his book and Mycroft helps him find a publisher. The book, entitled 'My Life with Sherlock Holmes", is a deeply personal affair, not only documenting the vast majority of their cases, but also their everyday life.

Sherlock is shocked at just how candid John is in the book, though out of necessity the parts about his former wife and Sherlock's murder of Charles Augustus Magnusson are redacted quite considerably. No one reading the book could ever doubt the depth of love John Watson feels for his husband.

"I never could say those things, Sherlock," says John quietly when his husband finally finishes reading that first draft. "But I have now learned that I can write it down."

* * *

><p>180.<p>

John thinks long and hard about the publication of the book knowing that it will open them up to intense scrutiny. These last few years since they moved away from London have been peaceful, at least relatively speaking, considering Sherlock doesn't really do peaceful the way others do.

In the end he makes the decision to delay publishing until they after their deaths. The publisher is disappointed but understanding. A contract is drawn up, with Mycroft as a witness. All proceeds from the book will be donated, split between The British Legion, Cruse Bereavement Care and Help for Heroes.

John is happy with his decision, as is Sherlock. After years of consulting criminals, ex-assassins, blackmailers and serial killers bringing them both excitement and dread into their lives, they deserve to live out the rest of their lives in peace, with their dogs and their bees and most of all their unwavering love and devotion to each other.

And there is a sense of peace in knowing that others will know of this love and its myriad expressions, long after they have both turned to dust. The names of Holmes and Watson, the detective and his blogger, will live on.


End file.
